


love in the middle of a firefight

by littlesnowpea



Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: All Cops Are Bastards, Enemies to Friends, Firefighters, Friends to Lovers, Lovers To Enemies, M/M, Trans Brendon Urie, Unhealthy Relationships, bob bryar sucks, entirely too many references to pop culture, paramedics, there is a sexy firefighter calendar involved, we do it all here folks, yes in that order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:55:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 29,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24476104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlesnowpea/pseuds/littlesnowpea
Summary: “I’m honored,” Pete said, voice going all stupid gravelly in the way Patrick absolutelyhatedthat he still liked. He gritted his teeth as he felt the amused gaze land on his back. “And how are you, Paramedic Stump?”“Captain,” Patrick reminded him, tossing his best derisive look over his shoulder. “Paramedic Captain. I am going to the daily meeting with the Fire Captain. Feel free to do...whatever it is you do in the mornings to feel important. Probationary Firefighter Wentz.”Pete scowled and a lick of satisfaction crawled its way up Patrick’s throat as he headed towards the Fire Captain’s office with his head held high. Pete made an indignant noise at his retreating back, but Patrick didn’t stop.
Relationships: Bob Bryar/Patrick Stump, Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz, Spencer Smith/Brendon Urie
Comments: 465
Kudos: 165





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SnitchesAndTalkers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnitchesAndTalkers/gifts).



> all of what you’re about to read is 100% real and EXACTLY the way emergency services operates. trust me. i’ve watched every single episode of 9-1-1 AND 9-1-1: Lone Star, so i think i know what i’m talking about.*
> 
> also i set it in san francisco because i’m from san francisco so this counts as self care.
> 
> this is all snitches’ fault.
> 
> *[narrator’s voice] she does not, in fact, know what she’s talking about. but yanno. just go with it?

“You know,” Joe said, and Patrick didn’t like the tone in his voice. He usually didn’t like the tone in Joe’s voice, but he _especially_ didn’t like the tone in Joe’s voice while Patrick was spending a solid 15 minutes glaring at the wall as he got ready for his shift. He felt more than saw Joe lean in and whisper, like they were sharing some sort of secret or something. 

“Those pictures are stuck on the wall with tape or something, sheer willpower isn’t enough to take them down.”

Patrick rolled his shoulders, trying to shoo Joe away, but Joe was not one to be shooed. Patrick had come to know this over the past, oh, century he’d known Joe. Since they looked at each other, senior year, shrugged, and signed up for the EMT training course.

Sometimes Patrick thinks that if he’d known he’d be haunted by his best friend for almost ten years after they graduated, he would have taken the SAT like his mother wanted. 

Behind them, in the weights area, there was the distinctive sound of a set of weights being placed on the rack, along with a sigh of satisfaction. Patrick’s grip on his belt turned white, and he yanked at it more aggressively than he’d meant to, ignoring Joe’s side-eye and raised eyebrow, before grabbing his black windbreaker and sliding it on. The radio said it would be a solid 60 degrees today, but it was San Francisco. All bets were off with the weather in San Francisco. 

“Nice that the paramedics show up early for once.”

Patrick shut his eyes and counted to ten because, for fuck’s sake, he was the Captain of the Paramedic Squad in Firehouse 1833 and he was _not_ , he repeated _not_ going to rise to some firefighter’s bait. 

“You get here early to work out?” Joe asked, and the disdain was obvious. Patrick reevaluated his feelings for his best friend. “You know, the competition already started, so it’s technically too late to improve your….slim chances.”

“Ouch,” Pete, because of course it was Pete, because Patrick would have given anything to transfer out of this firehouse but he was promoted instead. Patrick dreamt of a day he could work and not sleep in the same bunk room as his ex boyfriend. “Jealous, Paramedic Trohman? I’m sure one day they’ll do a sexy paramedic calendar, too. Probably for charity.”

“Nothing I am looking at makes me jealous in any way, shape, or form,” Joe said dryly. “Don’t worry, your entry into the stupid calendar is safe.”

“I’m honored,” Pete said, voice going all stupid gravelly in the way Patrick absolutely _hated_ that he still liked. He gritted his teeth as he felt the amused gaze land on his back. “And how are you, Paramedic Stump?”

“Captain,” Patrick reminded him, tossing his best derisive look over his shoulder. “Paramedic Captain. I am going to the daily meeting with the Fire Captain. Feel free to do...whatever it is you do in the mornings to feel important. Probationary Firefighter Wentz.”

Pete scowled and a lick of satisfaction crawled its way up Patrick’s throat as he headed towards the Fire Captain’s office with his head held high. Pete made an indignant noise at his retreating back, but Patrick didn’t stop. 

“I’m not probational anymore!” Pete shouted as Patrick grabbed the handle to the office. He gave Pete his best sympathetic smirk, reveling in the spark of anger he saw in the eyes he once loved. 

“I’m sorry, Firefighter Wentz,” he said, voice dripping with scorn. “I would have remembered, but once you are demoted and earn back your title, they don’t throw a fancy party for you again. So excuse my lapse in memory. I have very important things to do.”

The Fire Captain’s door closed on Pete’s outraged look, and Patrick felt a hint of satisfaction run through him until he collected himself and sat on one of the chairs opposite an amused looking Travie.

“Hello, Paramedic Captain,” he said, as if they hadn’t known each other long before either of their promotions. Patrick shot him a disbelieving look and Travie laughed, sitting back in his chair, badge glinting in the office light. “Alright, chill.”

“I am chill,” Patrick said. “I am so chill you don’t even _know_.”

“Right,” Travie said. “I think you have grey hairs.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Patrick said. “Can we run reports and get on with it before the bell rings?”

“Anything you want, your majesty,” Travie said, flipping open the file on his desk. “Alright, according to the Lieutenant last night was quiet on the fire front, one minor garage fire with no injuries. The probie that shift was, quote, ‘remarkable’, endquote.”

“I love how absolutely not vague they are,” Patrick muttered. Travie snorted and turned the page. “Medical was more busy, a couple overdoses and a drunk dude fell into one of those scooter things on Nineteenth Avenue.”

“Don’t say it,” Patrick warned as Travie’s grin grew. “Don’t.”

“I think we’re gonna have a slow day,” Travie said, and as soon as the words left his mouth, the bell rang. Patrick made a strangled groaning noise, pushing himself out of the chair and heading towards the office door. 

“You had to say it,” he shouted. “You just had to!”

Travie gave him a cheeky grin, jogging past him, as Dispatch reported a three car accident on Sunset. 

It was going to be a long shift. 

\-----

“The calendar is a stupid, sexist idea that has no place in 2020,” Patrick ranted. “I feel offended that this station is even participating.” 

“Tell us how you really feel,” Brendon said, not looking up from his cards. Patrick cut him a glare. It was useless, given that Brendon wasn’t even looking at him, but it made Patrick feel better, so there. 

“It perpetuates the stereotype that firefighters are bulky men,” Patrick continued. “And doesn’t embrace the diversity in the field.” 

Brendon scoffed, finally shooting Patrick a look. His eyebrows were raised disbelievingly, halfway up his unfortunately sized forehead, and he squinted at Patrick over the top of his cards.

“You’re not even a firefighter, I don’t know why you care so much.” 

“It makes the profession seem like a boy’s club,” Patrick steamrolled on, as if Brendon hadn’t spoken. Brendon made a strangled noise. “A cis, straight, white boy’s club.”

“Don’t include me in your convoluted argument,” Brendon said, holding his cards out for emphasis. “I am perfectly fine with a hot firefighter calendar. More than fine. If you catch my drift.”

“Oh, shut up,” Patrick said. He threw his cards down. “I’m out.”

“You’re a pathetic excuse for a Captain,” Joe said, then threw his cards down, too, a triumphant smirk on his face. “I win.”

“Not so fast,” Brendon retorted, smirking, and laid his cards delicately on top of both Patrick and Joe’s, patting them afterwards for good measure. “Flush.”

“I literally hate you,” Joe groaned as Brendon dragged the sad stack of candy they used instead of money towards him. “How do you always win? I know you’re cheating, you have to be cheating.”

“A gentleman never reveals his secrets,” Brendon said primly. Someone snorted from behind Patrick. 

“I think you got the quote mixed up, babe.”

Brendon split into a grin so bright and happy it almost hurt to look at directly. He pushed himself to his feet and accepted the kiss Spencer gave him, snuggling into his side and dragging him down to sit with them. 

“You brought the enemy, I see,” Joe said, arching an eyebrow. Spencer rolled his eyes. “Don’t y’all have some stupid dick measuring contest coming up?”

“Leave him alone, he’s one of the good ones,” Brendon argued, patting Spencer’s bicep. “Also he can bench press me.”

“Patrick can bench press you, let’s not pretend that’s a measure of sexiness,” Joe deadpanned, and Patrick sputtered out an offended _hey now!_ that Joe ignored. “He’s a _firefighter_.”

“He is not responsible for Pete’s sins,” Brendon informed the group at large. Spencer shuddered theatrically. 

“I disown Pete,” he said seriously, and Patrick narrowed his eyes. “Look, I am calm and rational and methodic in my skills and he is a literal hurricane made of broken glass and regret. We are not the same.”

“Fair,” Joe said. Spencer glanced over at Patrick, who made a face and sighed. 

“Fair,” he admitted. “Tell me you submitted to the calendar.”

“Weren’t you _just saying_ how awful it was?” Joe demanded, reaching out to snag a piece of Brendon’s winnings. Brendon smacked his hand away without even looking. 

“Well, it already exists,” Patrick said primly. “Which means the best of the best needs to win for this house.”

“He means he’ll commit a felony if Pete wins,” Brendon said dryly. Spencer nudged him. It wasn’t subtle. Brendon fixed Patrick with an exasperated look. “Look, why does it even matter that Pete might be Mr. April? It’s a stupid calendar. It exists to titillate tiny gay boys and middle aged soccer moms.”

“I didn’t know you knew big words like _titillate_ ,” Joe muttered. 

“That would _ruin_ my birthday month,” Patrick said, affronted. Brendon rolled his eyes. 

“Birthday months are not a thing,” he said firmly. “Not after the age of eight. And last I checked, eight year olds could not be certified paramedics and drive an ambulance.”

“Patrick can’t drive an ambulance either,” Joe said. Patrick smacked him, opening his mouth to protest something when the bell rang overhead, a medical call for suspected anaphylaxis in a Whole Foods. Still bickering, they scrambled up and to the rig, slipping into first responder mode like they did every shift.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick gave him his best grin, though it felt pinched and pained. 
> 
> “Long day,” he said briskly. “No rest in San Francisco.”
> 
> “Yeah, you’re telling me,” Bob scoffed. His voice, when he continued, was fake and innocent, but Patrick knew better. “Did that firefighter try anything?”
> 
> “Wentz?” Patrick asked, eyebrow raised, despite the fact that he knew exactly who Bob was talking about. “No. He hates my guts. And the feeling is mutual.”
> 
> Bob snorted. 
> 
> “Don’t know why you ever went out with that,” he muttered. “You’re lucky you landed me, you really leveled up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have nothing to say for myself.

Patrick was bone tired by the time he dragged his ass home. He’d missed MUNI by like, 2 minutes, and it was honestly faster to walk up to his apartment in the Haight from the station in Sunset than it was to sit on a bench and wait. 

And Patrick was tired and wanted to lie down. 

He unlocked the door, jiggling the key in the lock until it saw fit to open, and exhaled as he stepped into the narrow hallway. He dropped his keys in the chipped bowl on the side table, sliding off his SFFD windbreaker and hanging it on the hook. He kicked off his boots, nudging them until they were neatly under the table, and headed down the hall to the cramped living room. 

The TV was on, boxing it looked like, which meant Bob had made use of the key Patrick gave him for emergencies and was somewhere around here. He sighed--he was happy he had a boyfriend, yes. It helped him get over Pete. But their relationship was just so new and Patrick sometimes felt....suffocated. 

“Hey, you,” Bob said, sliding out of the kitchen with a beer in his hand. Patrick didn’t drink beer, so Bob had to have brought it, but Patrick didn’t mention it. “How was work?”

“Fairly routine,” Patrick answered. He watched Bob collapse onto the sofa and stick his feet on the coffee table and resisted the urge to correct him. Pete tolerated that, but Patrick already knew Bob wouldn’t. Bob was a lot...rougher. Not violence, he didn’t hit Patrick or anything, but where Pete was soft and sensitive, Bob was crass and bold. It was why Patrick went out with him, the 180 difference from Pete. Didn’t mean he was a fan of everything Bob did. 

“I was on patrol today, in the Presidio,” Bob said. Patrick raised an eyebrow. 

“Isn’t that outside your beat?” he asked. Bob shot him a dirty look. 

“Don’t interrupt me,” he said, and Patrick took that to mean Bob technically wasn’t supposed to be there. “Anyway, me and Morris--” _Morris and I_ Patrick mentally corrected-- “we saw this group of kids just hanging around Golden Gate Park. C’mon. Kids these days, they don’t just hang out at a park. So we stop them and thankfully they didn’t know their rights or anything so we booked them for the weed we found on them. Three in the books.”

“Weed is legal, though,” Patrick said, frowning. Bob scowled. 

“Not for minors it ain’t,” he snorted. Patrick’s brow furrowed. He had a lot to say to that, like “did you call their parents?” or “they’re just kids” but Bob wouldn’t care and Patrick wasn’t up for an argument. He kept his mouth shut, heading for the kitchen to pull a Fresca out of the fridge. He was so not in the mood for arguing, not right now, not after pulling a twelve. In the living room, Bob kept talking. 

“I’m so close to my quota this month--” Patrick bit his tongue against a sarcastic comment “--and then maybe Williams will stop riding my ass. I’m a good cop, damnit.”

Patrick made a noncommittal noise that could pass for agreement, but didn’t say anything else. He leaned against the counter, halfheartedly turning the can in his hand as Bob droned on about the unfairness at work. Maybe Patrick was more exhausted than he thought, but he was finding it pretty hard to be sympathetic to the plights of a man who sits in a car all day and terrorizes people. 

Not for the first time, he bitterly asked himself why he was still dating Bob at all, given his glaring flaws. 

“Hey,” Bob said, cutting into Patrick’s wandering thoughts and making him jump in surprise. He turned around to find Bob standing almost directly behind him, surveying Patrick over the rim of his beer bottle like Patrick was a fascinating yet incomprehensible puzzle he couldn’t wait to solve. He set the bottle on the kitchen counter with a loud _clink_ and took the can from Patrick’s hands. “You look tired.”

Patrick gave him his best grin, though it felt pinched and pained. 

“Long day,” he said briskly. “No rest in San Francisco.”

“Yeah, you’re telling me,” Bob scoffed. His voice, when he continued, was fake and innocent, but Patrick knew better. “Did that firefighter try anything?”

“Wentz?” Patrick asked, eyebrow raised, despite the fact that he knew exactly who Bob was talking about. “No. He hates my guts. And the feeling is mutual.”

Bob snorted. 

“Don’t know why you ever went out with that,” he muttered. “You’re lucky you landed me, you really leveled up.”

Leave it to Bob to brag about himself and insult Patrick in the same breath. He had a lot of nerve--Patrick had dated Pete for three years. This was his third month with Bob and if he were a less proud man, Patrick would have cut his losses in the first month. Unfortunately, Patrick’s middle name was Stubborn and Pete loathed Bob entirely. This was probably not the healthiest coping mechanism. 

Bob grabbed Patrick’s chin none-too-gently and leaned in for a kiss. Patrick kissed back, just because he didn’t have energy for an argument, and sighed as Bob pulled away, smirking triumphantly, and picked his beer up again. 

“I’m hungry,” he said, tossing the words over his shoulder as he went. “Think you could make us something?”

Patrick exhaled and counted to ten. 

\----

Brendon let out a low whistle when Patrick walked into the firehouse the next day. Patrick scowled, hunching into himself a little, tugging his windbreaker closer self-consciously. Brendon, however, wasn’t having it, and sidled up next to Patrick, tugging the collar down. 

“Holy shit,” he said. “Did you get mauled?”

“I’m your commanding officer,” Patrick protested weakly. Brendon clicked his tongue and ignored him. 

“Tiger or bear?” he joked, then something flashed in his eyes. “Or perhaps a feral pig?”

“Give it a rest,” Patrick said, sliding into the locker room, Brendon on his tail. “He was just enthusiastic.”

“I’ll say,” Brendon said, poking at one of the hickeys experimentally. “I mean, that’s one word for it. He does know you’re not sixteen and in the broom closet at prom, right?”

“What high school did you go to and was it in the sixties?” Patrick shot back. “Look. It’s fine. My collar covers it and what it doesn’t cover, I can use makeup for.”

“Classy,” Brendon said dryly. “Like covering a bruise.”

“Would you stop?” Patrick asked, exasperated. “I’m not a victim of domestic violence.”

Brendon held his hands up. 

“You said it, not me,” he said defensively. “Don’t shoot me.”

Patrick glared at him until he deflated. 

“Fine,” he said. “Hand the concealer over. But you are going to listen to me list everything I hate about your boyfriend. Would you like me to go alphabetically or chronologically?”

“Could you do it in Hawaiian?” Patrick asked. “It would be a refreshing change.”

Brendon dabbed the concealer on the hickeys, tongue trapped between his teeth, before glancing up and meeting Patrick’s eyes in the locker room mirror. He pointed at Patrick’s reflection with the stick. 

“Just so you know,” he said, vaguely threatening. “If this becomes covering up a black eye, I will not be responsible for my actions.”

“He’s not hitting me,” Patrick said. It was true. Bob wasn’t hitting him. He was just kind of a dick that Patrick wasn’t sure why he was dating, actually. Brendon narrowed his eyes. 

“Did you know like 60% of cops beat their wives?” he asked. 

“Fascinating,” Patrick said, an edge of defensiveness in his voice. “I don’t remember asking and I’m not a cop’s wife.”

“Patrick.”

“Look, I get it,” Patrick said. Brendon rolled his eyes and went back to covering up the hickeys passive-aggressively. Patrick didn’t know someone could apply makeup passive aggressively, but Brendon was always full of surprises. “You don’t like Bob. He’s a dick. You don’t know why I’m dating him.”

“Do go on,” Brendon muttered. 

“But he’s not abusing me,” Patrick finished pointedly, then his shoulders slumped. “Although last night I pretty much decided to dump him.”

Brendon looked up, meeting Patrick’s eyes in the mirror again, splitting into one of his blinding and genuine grins. 

“Now that’s the best news I’ve heard all week,” Brendon declared. Patrick rolled his eyes. “Look, I know Pete’s...Pete, but you can do so much better than Officer Krupke. For real.”

“Are you seriously quoting West Side Story right now?” Patrick asked, arching an eyebrow. “I repeat: are you a time traveler from the sixties?”

“I was _in_ West Side Story,” Brendon huffed, capping the concealer and handing it back to Patrick. “I played Graziella. I sang that song!”

“I’m trying to picture you on stage,” Patrick said, looking Brendon up and down. “You’re so quiet and shy in real life.”

“Eat shit,” Brendon huffed, and Patrick grinned. “So when are you gonna dump him?”

“Why, do you want to buy tickets?” Patrick asked. Brendon smirked. 

“Maybe,” he said flippantly. The bell rang above them and they both began moving on autopilot, Brendon spitting out his gum and leaping dramatically over the locker room bench as Patrick zipped up his windbreaker and hurried after them, boots squeaking on the floor.

“Station 1833, this is Dispatch, reports of a vehicle versus bicyclist at Geary and Park Presidio, request two RA units and crowd control.”

Patrick hopped into the back of the ambulance with Brendon and slammed the doors, thumping the roof to tell Joe to drive before sitting back and exhaling, sliding into Paramedic mode for their first call of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: i was actually in west side story and actually did play graziella and did sing that song. art imitates life.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick was covered in mud. Patrick was covered in mud, sliding on the ground, trying desperately to stay upright. It was a mostly failed endeavor, and he’d be more frustrated if his entire paramedic team weren’t already down for the count, unable to regain footing. 
> 
> “Hold on!” someone shouted from up the hill. Patrick thought it was a firefighter. He couldn’t see without his glasses, which he’d lost somewhere in the commotion of the house turning into a mudslide. “Fuck, move!”
> 
> Patrick cast a nervous glance down the hill, to the street and the sharp cliff. He hoped the houses lower down on Telegraph Hill were evacuated, because the flow of now-destroyed house and torrential mud was certainly going to wipe out a few more houses. The real question was would it spare Coit Tower.
> 
> Patrick didn’t know and didn’t care: he would just prefer that he and his team not be part of the mudslide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter goes out to snitches, who doesn't understand why i live somewhere where the ground wants to eat me.

Patrick was covered in mud. Patrick was covered in mud, sliding on the ground, trying desperately to stay upright. It was a mostly failed endeavor, and he’d be more frustrated if his entire paramedic team weren’t already down for the count, unable to regain footing. 

“Hold on!” someone shouted from up the hill. Patrick thought it was a firefighter. He couldn’t see without his glasses, which he’d lost somewhere in the commotion of the house turning into a mudslide. “Fuck, move!”

Patrick cast a nervous glance down the hill, to the street and the sharp cliff. He hoped the houses lower down on Telegraph Hill were evacuated, because the flow of now-destroyed house and torrential mud was certainly going to wipe out a few more houses. The real question was would it spare Coit Tower.

Patrick didn’t know and didn’t care: he would just prefer that he and his team not be part of the mudslide. 

Something landed beside him, heavy, splattering mud, and it took Patrick a second to recognize what it was. 

A fire hose. 

He should probably start from the top. 

\-----

Doing CPR in the back of an ambulance screaming through San Francisco in the pouring rain was very, very difficult. 

Patrick assumed that was why he was doing it, as the captain. 

Well, that, and Brendon was looking a little green and Patrick couldn’t blame him. His uniform shirt was covered in blood, which Patrick immediately ordered him to strip off, and it had soaked through to his undershirt, which he’d also removed, so now he was sitting feet from someone who was coding, in his binder, scrubbing at his bloodstained hands with an alcohol wipe. 

“Hold CPR,” Sarah said, and Patrick leaned back, watching the LifePak with a little bit of desperation and a lot of fear. “No pulse. Resume compressions.”

Patrick fell back into CPR, ignoring the burn in his arms and how cold he was from the rain. He just wanted one survivor. Just one. The other four passengers in the car were DOA, Patrick just wanted this one person to survive. 

“Hold CPR,” Sarah said again, and Patrick leaned back, panting a little. He stared at the LifePak. _Come on. Come on._

“No pulse,” Sarah said. “It’s been twelve minutes.”

“Call it?” Brendon asked, voice hoarse, the first thing he’d said since they’d taken off. Patrick exhaled slowly, pressing his fist to the middle of his forehead for a moment to stave off the headache before stripping off his gloves. 

“I’m calling it,” he said, heart hurting. “Fuck. Time of death?”

“3:12 pm,” Sarah said. She pulled the sheet up and over the patient’s head, staring at the flatline on the LifePak for a long moment before disconnecting it. “I’ll call UCSF.”

Patrick nodded jerkily, taking a deep breath before reaching for his radio. 

“All RA units from the 1833 be advised, Ambulance 7 is transporting a DIR, repeat Ambulance 7 is transporting a DIR,” he said, proud of how his voice mostly stayed steady. The ambulance sirens cut out, so Joe was listening. “Ambulance 7 is out of service until transport is complete, Ambulance 7 is out of service until transport is complete. Over.”

A long moment, before his radio crackled to life again. 

“Copy Ambulance 7,” Travie said, and Patrick exhaled. The _fuck, I’m sorry_ was evident in the tone of his voice, and Patrick took comfort in it. 

Patrick looked at Brendon. 

“Do you have a spare shirt?” he asked, and Brendon jerked, visibly snapping out of the haze he’d been slipping into. “Is your binder clean?”

“From blood,” Brendon joked weakly. He sucked in a deep breath and stood, crossing to his cubby and fishing out an extra uniform shirt, wrinkled but blood free. His badge and nametag had been wiped clean and removed from the ruined shirt, and after he dressed himself, he pinned them back on and met Patrick’s eyes, looking marginally more human. “Thanks.”

Patrick didn’t say anything, just stood as the ambulance began reversing, pulling on a new set of gloves. 

\----

“Two fucking seconds,” Joe bitched, and Patrick sank into the passenger seat, breathing out through his nose and reminding himself that the state of California did not have a justifiable homicide law. Well, not one that was workable to this situation. “We drop off a dead body, sanitize the cab, go back on duty, and _instantly_ get called out again. What about a break?”

“This may surprise you, but emergencies don’t respect labor laws,” Patrick said dryly. “Can you shut up now?”

“I’m reporting you to HR,” Joe lied badly. He sighed, weaving around a car driven by someone too stupid to pull over for the lights and siren. Their radios crackled to life simultaneously. 

_RA units be advised, mudslide warning is in effect for Telegraph Hill. Proceed with caution._

Joe groaned loudly and Patrick rolled his eyes before grabbing his radio. 

“Ambulance 7, copy,” he said, and clicked it off. A few more confirmations trickled through, and Patrick frowned. “How many fucking ambulances are they sending to a cardiac event?”

“Do I look like the Captain?” Joe said, and Patrick rolled his eyes again. Frankly, he was surprised his eyes hadn’t gotten stuck like that today. 

“Dispatch, this is Ambulance 7 en route to 1775 Lombard for a cardiac event,” he said, wincing as Joe hit a pothole a little too hard. “How many RAs responding?”  


“Ambulance 7, this is Dispatch,” a frazzled voice responded a split second later. “Please report to 1775 Lombard for a structure collapse. Event was misreported.”

“ _How_ was a structure collapse misreported as a _cardiac event_?” Joe muttered, fingers flexing on the wheel. 

“Copy, Dispatch,” Patrick said into the radio, then turned to Joe. “Cheer up. You hate cardiac events.”

“Yes, because a structure collapse in the pouring rain is more fun,” Joe bitched. “Waiting around until Fire clears the scene? Thrilling.”

Patrick decided to ignore Joe, because Patrick was the Captain and his mom once said to not say anything if it wasn’t nice. Also he had a headache. 

Joe took a sharp turn onto Lombard, and sped up the first hill. Patrick dropped his gaze to the GPS, ignoring the houses whipping by. Joe swung the rig hard and the GPS chimed. 

“Here,” Patrick announced, fumbling for his seatbelt and updating their location. Joe snorted. 

“Yes,” he said dryly. “I can tell.”

Patrick looked up. To his right, the hill dropped off, Coit Tower just in view, as were lines of houses. He frowned and turned to question Joe when his gaze caught up and he froze. 

“Yep,” Joe said, and opened the ambulance door, stepping out into the rain. Patrick could just stare, gaping, at the mess they had arrived at. 

A large house, at least two stories, was evidently constructed on shitty foundations. If Patrick had a dime for every time shitty foundations caused issues, he’d be on a yacht. It looked like this particular house was only partially collapsed, one half standing, the other a mess. Lights were flickering, so electricity was still live, and Patrick grabbed his radio. 

“Can we kill electric?” he said, nearly having to shout to be heard over the pouring rain and wind. “Fire needs to clear the standing portion.”

“Copy,” someone replied, voice distorted from the static. “PG&E is en route. We need medical for two self-extractions, West/Southwest of the collapsed portion.”

Patrick tried not to groan. PG&E was en route? So they’d be there next week.

“Copy,” Patrick said, and waved Brendon and Sarah over. “Medical dispatched.” He let go of the radio and faced his two paramedics. “West/Southwest of collapsed portion, two patients.”

“Got it,” Sarah said, Brendon nodding and yanking his hood on. They took off as quickly as the slippery road could take them, medical bags slung over their shoulders, LifePak in Brendon’s hand. 

Patrick turned to face Joe. 

“Stretcher,” he said, and Joe nodded, heading for the back of the rig when a loud, bone-chilling groan echoed down the hill. Patrick froze where he stood, breath catching in his chest, before turning to look at the half- collapsed house. 

“Mudslide!” someone shouted from further up the road. Patrick bit back the loud _fuck_ he wanted to say and stumbled back, hitting the side of the ambulance. 

It was like a scene out of a horror movie, except it was terrifyingly real. The collapsed half of the house slowly tore itself free of the standing portion, carried by the ground that had liquefied under their feet due to the storm. Patrick watched firefighters in turnout gear flee, heard shouting and screaming, and snapped his gaze to Joe as Joe grabbed his arm. 

“Bren and Sarah?” he gasped out. Patrick gestured helplessly. “Fuck.”

“Fall back!” someone else shouted, just as the mud began to pick up speed, racing right towards them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was an unmitigated disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i still live in a state that wants me dead. what about it.

This was an unmitigated disaster. 

Patrick scrambled to stay upright against the first wave of mud, staggering as something hit his legs. He squinted through the rain to see two familiar uniforms and reached down to haul them up, but it was no use. The ground was too slick to get a footing, and Patrick didn’t want to go down, too. 

Thankfully, his crew was smart, and Brendon let go of Patrick’s legs and grabbed onto Sarah, sliding freely down the street until they got to the rig. Brendon braced his body against the front end until Sarah could get oriented, and once they were settled, Brendon flashed Patrick a thumbs up. 

Great.

Beside him, Joe had a tight hold of his arm, either unwilling or unable or both to let go. A loud groan and horrible screeching sound made Patrick flinch, and he looked back up at the house in trepidation. 

“Fuck,” Joe said succinctly; or, at least, Patrick thought that was what he said. The loud sound of the house finally collapsing completely and the torrential rain made hearing kind of difficult. Patrick felt frozen, staring wide-eyed at the house, when something landed near them with a splat.

He glanced over. 

It was a fire hose. Patrick brain switched from _panic_ to _calm_ in the blink of an eye, and he shook his arm free of Joe’s grip only to clamp on to Joe’s arm in return, falling to his knees and pulling Joe along with him as he awkwardly shuffled to the deflated fire hose and latched on, pulling at Joe until he got the picture and did the same. 

Patrick twisted, looking for Brendon and Sarah, and exhaled harshly in relief as Brendon managed to get himself and Sarah to the tail end of the hose. 

Patrick fumbled for his radio, crossing his fingers and praying it still worked.

“Ambulance 7 secure!” he shouted, unable to even hear the static. “Get us out of here!”

Someone replied, garbled and unintelligible, and after two heartstopping seconds, wherein Patrick watched the second wave of mud and the collapsed house slide down the hill toward him, the hose was pulled with a hard yank, and all four of them were dragged across the ground, quick enough to give Patrick’s exposed skin road rash.

He didn’t care. He really didn’t, not when they were clear of the slide and not about to fucking die on Lombard Street in this wet fucking city.

“Oh my God,” Joe said, voice hoarse like he’d been screaming. He might have been. Wasn’t like Patrick could hear over everything. But now they were practically on top of each other, and Patrick looked up to see firefighters racing towards them, and _fuck_ Patrick didn’t think they’d get out of that one. 

“Alright?” someone asked, and squinting through the mud on his face and still-pouring rain revealed it to be Andy, who reached down and hauled Patrick to his feet on blessedly stable land. Andy moved to help Joe, too, and Patrick glanced behind himself to see Spencer helping Brendon and Sarah.

Relief shot through him as he looked at the house--or what was left of it. Where they had been standing was now at least six feet of still-oozing mud, and the house was nonexistent. Looking down at his own (ruined) shoes, Patrick noted with a little hysteria that nothing more than five feet separated them from the mudslide, and oh, how nature played games. 

“Police are on their way,” someone shouted from up the hill, and Joe barked out an exhausted laugh. 

“For _what_ ,” he muttered, and Patrick huffed, smiling a little despite his weary body and aching joints. It was still raining, pouring even, but he hardly felt it. His body felt like it was being dragged underwater, like he’d been tied up and pushed off a boat with shoes made of cement, and as he took a step, his knees buckled and he braced himself for impact with the ground. 

It didn’t come. 

Someone caught him, their body strong and unyielding as they lowered him to his knees, then to his side as he began to shake. Something draped over him, blocking his face from the sky. He groaned, squinting out the little space he had left, seeing feet walking by until someone laid a gentle hand on his side. 

“Patrick,” they said, and that voice sounded familiar but he couldn’t make his synapses fire correctly. “Did he hit his head?”

Someone replied but Patrick couldn’t focus on it. He just knew he was tired and he hurt and his body was demanding he sleep. Logically he knew he shouldn’t, not until he was looked over, but logic was a weak fucking bitch in the face of everything else. 

“Either we get another RA unit up here or you toss me a medbag,” the same person said sharply. “He’s hurt, he can’t help with S&R, and CalFire is on their way anyway.”

Another mumbled reply and Patrick groaned as whatever was shielding him was moved and he was rolled onto his back, closing his eyes against the rain until he couldn’t feel the drops. 

He opened his eyes, saw Andy staring somberly down at him, he and Joe holding what looked like a turnout coat over him. Next to him, someone took his wrist gently and pressed two fingers to his pulse. His head felt like it weighed a million pounds, but Patrick grit his teeth and forced himself to move it, to look at whoever was helping him. 

“You’re not a paramedic,” he said tiredly. He was pretty sure he was supposed to be pissed, but he was tired, and hurting, and he knew that this person would do anything to help him. 

“I do have my EMT certificate,” Pete said dryly back, taking Patrick’s chin and checking his pupils. “You have a concussion. Bet money.”

“Hurts,” Patrick managed. Pete squeezed his hand, looking up at Andy and Joe. 

“We should call Bob,” he said, and he sounded like he hated every word, but he was still saying them. “Who’s responding from PD?”

“ _No_ ,” Patrick said loudly, surprising even himself with his firmness. “I really, really do not want him.”

“Okay,” Pete said carefully. “Who do you want us to call? You have to go to the hospital.”

“I know,” Patrick said tiredly. He did, too. He gestured halfheartedly, arm impossibly heavy. “You know everything.”

There was a slight pause before Pete was nodding again, looking back up at Joe and Andy.

“Okay,” he said. “Joe, backboard?”

“Not sure we need it,” Joe said, and if Patrick had any functioning brain cells left, he’d be examining why Joe sounded so goddamn delighted, but Patrick had other shit to focus on at that moment. Seamlessly, Joe and Pete switched places, and Patrick felt Joe begin a spinal check. 

“Can feel everything,” he said. “Can walk.”

“I’m sure,” Joe said patronizingly. He completed his check and nodded. “Yeah, he can walk. Pop him in a truck?”

“No, there’s an RA unit down the hill,” Pete said. “I’ll walk him.”

“Alright,” Joe said, and, in between blinks, Patrick was on his feet, swaying a little, but upright. The turnout jacket was resting on his shoulders and Pete’s arm was supporting him. He sighed shakily. 

“I’m not going to interrogate you,” Pete said, and Patrick made a relieved noise. “Tell me if you’re gonna puke.”

Patrick made a noncommittal sound of agreement, focusing on each step, every inch they walked feeling harder. Bright red and blue lights made him flinch back, and Pete quickly covered Patrick’s face, pushing him into his shoulder where Patrick could smell that goddamn unique _Pete_ smell he’d missed so much.

“Officers,” Pete said pleasantly. “He’s gotta go to the hospital. We really need crowd control up the hill.”

Patrick vaguely realized he was being hustled away, quicker than before, and the reason why hit him as the responding voice spoke.

“Yeah, whatever,” Bob said, clearly not recognizing Patrick when his face was covered and he was wrapped in a turnout jacket and he felt like he was a fudgesicle made of mud. 

Whatever, indeed. Patrick really didn’t want to look at Bob’s face right now, so whatever worked was fine. He exhaled as they made it to the ambulance, and the two unfamiliar paramedics and Pete sprang into action to get him transported.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everything is gonna be just fine.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Pete said carefully, eyes still locked on Patrick. “Or upset Bob.”
> 
> Patrick couldn’t help it, he audibly scoffed at Bob’s name, feeling a little triumphant when Pete’s eyebrow went up and his lips twitched like he was dying to say something. Evidently, Pete had grown an inch or so in their breakup because he didn’t immediately bust out with prying, rude questions, just helped Patrick out of the stupid gown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for any mistakes, this is unbetaed and i have the ‘rona. (not kidding)

Every muscle in Patrick’s body hurt. Nothing was broken, thank God, but he definitely felt like he’d been worked over with a baseball bat or four. His head hurt and he wanted to sleep for one million years. 

“Here,” Pete said quietly, handing over a pair of sweats and a shirt. “Joe dropped these off. Do you need help?”

“Probably,” Patrick admitted, wincing as he struggled to sit upright on the hospital bed. Pete’s hands darted out to stabilize him, the tip of his tongue trapped between his teeth as his wide brown eyes carefully looked Patrick over. 

“Should I call a nurse?” he offered, sounding surprisingly gentle. Patrick sighed shakily. 

“No,” he said. “We were together for three years, you’ve seen it all.”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Pete said carefully, eyes still locked on Patrick. “Or upset Bob.”

Patrick couldn’t help it, he audibly scoffed at Bob’s name, feeling a little triumphant when Pete’s eyebrow went up and his lips twitched like he was dying to say something. Evidently, Pete had grown an inch or so in their breakup because he didn’t immediately bust out with prying, rude questions, just helped Patrick out of the stupid gown. 

Patience like that probably deserved to be rewarded, and breakup or not, Pete still understood him better than anyone else, including Joe. He let Pete pull the shirt over his head and sat for the sweats. 

“It’s dumb,” he said, and Pete made a noncommital noise as he knelt at Patrick’s feet and began guiding his right leg into his sweats. Patrick felt a little like an overgrown toddler. “Like, really dumb.”

“We were together for three years,” Pete parroted back to Patrick’s knee, very focused on dressing Patrick. “You’ve probably done dumber.”

Pete had a point. 

Patrick hated when Pete had a point.

“I’m tired,” he said. Pete didn’t say anything--Patrick knew he understood that Patrick meant more than what had happened at work. He stood, reaching out for Patrick’s arms and finally making eye contact with him. 

He sighed, draping Patrick’s arms over his shoulders and pulling the sweats the rest of the way up, pausing when he was done. Patrick’s mouth became very dry when he realized they were closer than they’d been in months, since the breakup. Pressed practically chest to chest, Pete’s breath puffing out over Patrick’s face, his eyes so fucking clear and pretty--

Patrick dropped his head to Pete’s shoulder and, after a moment, Pete rested his own head on top of Patrick’s. 

“I miss you,” Patrick confessed. “I miss you so much.”

“I miss you too,” Pete whispered. “I’m fucking sorry.”

They stood like that for a while, the sounds of the emergency room the only noise, the clock on the wall clicking steadily past the hour. Nearly three in the morning. Well past the time he was due home. Zero calls on the phone Joe had dropped off with the clothes. 

That told Patrick all he needed to know. 

“He’s kind of a dick,” Patrick confessed into the warm, soft skin of Pete’s neck. He felt Pete’s whole body go tense and immediately rushed to correct the misunderstanding. “He hasn’t hurt me.”

Pete relaxed an inch. 

“Okay,” Pete said. His face was buried in Patrick’s hair, which was a bold choice considering it hadn’t been washed and Patrick was sure he’d be finding mud and possibly bits of collapsed house in it for the next week. “Then how?”

“He’s a cop,” Patrick sighed. “First mistake, I know.”

“You said it, not me,” Pete teased, but it was gentle. “Break up with him?”

Patrick hummed in agreement. 

“I’m too tired to,” he said. “Can you do it?”

“Not sure that’s gonna work,” Pete said, a hint of amusement in his voice. “But if you want help kicking him out, I’m sure the crew would volunteer.”

“He doesn’t even live with me,” Patrick grumbled. “He has a key and invited himself.”

“Okay,” Pete said. “We’ll change the locks. I’ll hire a plane to write “go fuck yourself Bob Bryar” in the sky above the precinct.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Patrick told him, finally lifting his head. It felt like it weighed a million pounds. Pete flashed him a grin.

“We can discuss specifics some other time,” he said. “You wanna crash on my couch?”

Patrick squinted up at him. He was still Pete, still just two inches taller than him, still probably impulsive and thrill seeking and dumb as hell, but still, despite everything, there was no one else Patrick could trust. 

“Please,” he said, and Pete’s responding grin was nearly blinding. Someone knocked on the wall of the little room he and Pete were in, short and sharp and professional, and Pete cleared his throat.

“Yeah, come in.”

A nurse pulled the curtain back. She looked a little taken aback to see Pete and Patrick still loosely embraced, going so far as to check her clipboard and the whiteboard on the wall.

“You’re Patrick, right?” she asked slowly, frowning. “Patrick Stump?”

“Yes?” Patrick replied, exchanging a _look_ with Pete. Pete shrugged, as if to say _how the hell should I know_ , which was exactly as helpful as Patrick predicted. The nurse’s frown grew. 

“You have a visitor,” she said, eyeing Pete. “A police officer. Your husband?”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Patrick and Pete said in unison, eyes wide. The nurse’s frown grew, and she glanced over her shoulder. 

“He--” she began, but Bob’s fucking voice cut in. 

“He’s right here,” he practically growled, ripping the curtain back, so much hate in his eyes Patrick actually felt fear go through him. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Patrick got injured at work,” Pete said, sounding a hell of a lot braver than Patrick felt. “We’ve been here for five hours and I’ve left several messages, as did Patrick’s crew. You could have called back or come any time.”

“I’m a busy man,” Bob sneered. “And he looks fine. Patrick, we’re going home.”

“Home?” Patrick asked weakly. “You mean my apartment? Which you are visiting?”

Bob narrowed his eyes. A chill went through Patrick. 

“Let’s. Go,” he said, voice harsh and cold. Pete’s grip tightened on Patrick’s wrist. 

“No,” Patrick said. “You’re not my husband. And as of now, you’re no longer my boyfriend, either.”

Bob’s eyebrows shot up and he actually took a step back, looking from Pete to Patrick in undisguised shock. The nurse backed away quickly, and Patrick could only hope she’d gone to fetch someone who could get Bob to leave. Patrick felt a little shaky, a little wobbly. He felt a pit open up in his stomach as anger clouded Bob’s face once again and Bob’s hands curled into fists at his sides. 

“Is that so?” he asked, venom in every word. “Well. Fine then. You’re under arrest.”

“ _What_?” Pete demanded, and Patrick just gaped at Bob, stumbling back when Bob _actually pulled out his handcuffs_. “You can’t arrest him without a warrant. I went to law school, motherfucker.”

“Yeah?” Bob said, not even looking at Pete as he advanced on Patrick. “And what are you gonna do about it?”

“Leave him alone,” Pete said, but Bob was bigger, and one push sent Pete staggering back just enough for Bob to get a grip on Patrick’s wrist and turn him around, all but slamming him up against the wall, tipping over the IV pole and sending the blood pressure machine clattering to the ground. 

Bob pressed in close, so close his breath was hot in Patrick’s ear. 

“Stop resisting,” he said, and Patrick felt like throwing up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALL! COPS! ARE! BASTARDS!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’re gonna talk,” Bob said. “You got hurt, have a concussion, you’re irrational--”
> 
> “ _I’m_ irrational?” Patrick interrupted, voice going up an octave. “You _fake arrested_ me at the _hospital_ because you _couldn’t take no for an answer_. You’re out of your _mind_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *clears throat* not to sound petulant, but i’m still dying from covid and like....my birthday is tomorrow....a birthday i get to celebrate in quarantine....so like......love me?

“You can’t fucking do this, Bob,” Patrick snapped, even as Bob unceremoniously shoved him in his squad car. “You have no arrest warrant, you have no grounds, and the fucking _second_ I tell Captain Weekes--”

“Leave my fucking Captain out of this,” Bob snarled, slamming the driver’s side door and starting the engine. “Besides, we’re not going to the station.”

“Oh, so you’re kidnapping me?” Patrick asked. “Fantastic! You gonna murder me and dump my body in the Bay, too? Really complete the trifecta?”

“I suggest you shut your mouth,” Bob said lowly, hands clenched on the steering wheel. 

“Or what?” Patrick asked. “Or you beat the crap out of me? I’m not fucking afraid of you. Let me go.”

“We’re gonna talk,” Bob said. “You got hurt, have a concussion, you’re irrational--”

“ _I’m_ irrational?” Patrick interrupted, voice going up an octave. “You _fake arrested_ me at the _hospital_ because you _couldn’t take no for an answer_. You’re out of your _mind_.”

“No one knows it’s fake,” Bob said. He pulled out onto 19th Avenue and swerved into the far lane, lights flashing but siren off. Patrick shifted uncomfortably, handcuffs tight and arms awkwardly pinned behind him, muscles already complaining.

“Pete does,” he said. “Or have you forgotten that he witnessed the entire thing?”

“Because anyone will listen to him,” Bob snorted. “The disgraced, demoted firefighter who got three civilians killed.”

“That was a mistake,” Patrick said, firmly pushing his own feelings down. “The deaths were not on him. And he’s been reinstated. And that has nothing to do with you abusing your power--”

“You’re overreacting,” Bob said. Patrick stared at him. 

“Are you listening to yourself?” he demanded. “What the hell are you doing? What is the point of this?”

“You are not breaking up with me,” Bob said calmly. Patrick snorted.

“I certainly am now,” he said condescendingly. “You’re out of your mind. Let me go, before this gets out of hand.”

Bob’s radio crackled to life, interrupting whatever inane excuse Bob was going to offer next. Patrick’s attention snapped to it, brow crinkling. 

_Dispatch for Officer Bryar, please respond._

Bob shot Patrick a threatening look before he picked up his radio, clicking the button to respond. 

“Go for Officer Bryar,” he said, sounding surprisingly normal and _not_ like he’d just dived off the deep end and _kidnapped Patrick from the hospital._ Patrick glared at him. After an endless pause, Dispatch responded. 

_Please report to SFPD HQ, stat. Repeat, please report to SFPD HQ, stat. Over._

Bob gave Patrick a dirty look before responding. 

“Copy,” he said, eyes locked on Patrick even as he kept speeding down the street. “En route.”

“Looks like things got out of hand,” Patrick said. Bob scowled. 

“Shut up,” he said. “We’re going home. You’re gonna stay there until I sort things out. Then we’re gonna chat.”

“It’s not your home,” Patrick said. “It’s mine. And there’s nothing to chat about, because we are over. The only logical thing you’ve said all night is you leaving me at home. Let’s do that.”

“You don’t get to dictate our relationship,” Bob said. 

“I’m living in a nightmare,” Patrick whispered. Bob swung around the corner, heading up the dark, quiet hill where Patrick’s building was nestled. Patrick wasn’t surprised it was so dark and quiet, but Bob seemed agitated, looking around, twitching in his seat. 

“Something’s wrong,” he muttered. “It’s too….silent.”

“It’s three in the fucking morning,” Patrick snapped. “Do you expect a block party?”

Bob didn’t grace him with an answer, just kept staring around, even as he pulled the squad car to the side, parking in front of a fire hydrant--Patrick clenched his teeth against a retort--and climbing cautiously out. 

Nothing happened--because nothing was wrong, and Bob was paranoid--and after a moment of staring around the deserted street, Bob circled around to the driver’s side and pulled Patrick out. 

“Walk,” he hissed, as he stumbled. Bob steered him towards Patrick’s building and the dark, narrow stairs up to his door, and Patrick felt a little sick. He glanced up at Bob, who was still looking around nervously. He caught Patrick looking at him and gave him a little shake. “We’re going inside. I am going to lock you in the bathroom while I go handle this. Are you going to stay quiet on your own? I don’t want to have to gag you.”

“Bob,” Patrick tried, but was interrupted by bright flashlights and sudden shouting, abruptly overwhelming him. He blinked, squinted, and tried to make sense of what was happening, even as Bob’s grip on his arm tightened. 

“Hands up!” someone was shouting. “Hands up, don’t move!”

“I’m on the job!” Bob shouted back, not letting go of Patrick. “SFPD, I can show you my badge!”

“Keep your hands where we can see them!” the same person shouted. “On your knees!”

Bob pulled Patrick down with him and Patrick winced as his already aching body complained. The bright flashlights redirected away from his face and he blinked the spots away to see three officers approaching them, all with their guns out.

“I’m handcuffed,” Patrick tried to shout, voice cracking and hoarse. 

“Keep your mouth shut,” Bob said, but an officer stepped between them. Bob glared up at her and she sneered down at him. “Sergeant.”

“Why am I surprised, Officer Bryar?” the woman said. Her hair was back in a tight bun and she holstered her gun in order to haul Bob to his feet and push him towards the other two officers, who cuffed him. She then turned to Patrick, and the remaining light from the flashlights caught on her badge: WILLIAMS. “Hi. You must be Patrick.”

“How did you know?” Patrick managed, and Williams bent down to unlock the handcuffs, patting him gently on the shoulder when he groaned as his muscles protested. Williams helped him to his feet. 

“Call it serendipity,” she said, shrugging. “Or dumb luck. Whichever you like. I’m friends with a firefighter who works at the house you’re Paramedic Captain of. I didn’t believe him at first when he called, until he told me it was this fucker over here.”

“Pete,” Patrick said tiredly. Williams nodded. “Thank you.”

“Just doing my job,” Williams shrugged. “He’ll spend the night warming up the holding cell for sure. His Captain has been informed of his misconduct and he will be passed on to discipline in the morning. You are free to file a restraining order, and change the locks. Also--”

Williams reached into her pocket and pulled out a business card, handing it over. Patrick glanced down.

_Sergeant Hayley Williams_   
_19th Precinct_

Underneath was a phone number and email, and Patrick looked up to meet Williams’ eyes. 

“Thanks,” he said. 

“If you need anything,” she said meaningfully. “The thin blue line bullshit is strong sometimes.”

“Don’t I know it,” Patrick muttered. Williams nodded again before signalling to the other officers and heading back to her car. Patrick watched her go, exhaling slowly for a long moment, before turning towards the stairs and almost sagging in relief when he saw Pete hovering uncertainly at the top, by Patrick’s front door. 

“You’re okay,” Pete breathed, and, at Patrick’s nod, he took the stairs two at a time until he could pull Patrick into a hug, like he was checking for himself. After a long moment, he pulled away and studied Patrick’s face, chewing his lip. “Stay at mine. Please. Until this is solved.”

Patrick took a shaky breath and nodded. 

“Okay,” he said, voice hollow, and tried to forget the feeling of Bob’s handcuffs on his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everything is gonna be JUST FINE


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did you sleep with him?” Brendon asked, finishing with his own gloves with a loud snap and looking at Patrick expectantly. “I bet you did. You _did_ , didn’t you.”
> 
> “Could you not ask unprofessional questions for like, two seconds?” Patrick asked. “And no. I didn’t. I slept on his couch. Because I got _kidnapped_ from the _hospital_ and was not in a _have sex with my ex_ mood.”
> 
> “But did you die?” Brendon asked insolently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this chapter was intended to be kind of a gentle chapter after last week’s but then i made it sad. because i’m me. 
> 
> warnings for: discussion of blatant transphobia (after the fact) as well as allusions to anti-semitism (also after the fact) if you want to skip these, they’re at the very end. just stop reading when brendon and patrick back in the ambulance. you won’t miss anything, plot wise, except more proof that emts aren’t paid enough for what they have to put up with, and yet, they somehow do their jobs COPS

“I don’t want to say _I told you so_ ,” Brendon began, and Patrick rolled his eyes, adjusting his cuff. 

“Then don’t,” he said. “Look, an easy solution. The gloves are _right in front of your face._ ”

A pair hit Patrick in the face and he scowled at Brendon even as he began to put them on, body swaying as the ambulance moved through traffic on its way to--and Patrick could not make this up--a fight between two mothers at a toddler pageant. 

“Did you sleep with him?” Brendon asked, finishing with his own gloves with a loud snap and looking at Patrick expectantly. “I bet you did. You _did_ , didn’t you.”

“Could you not ask unprofessional questions for like, two seconds?” Patrick asked. “And no. I didn’t. I slept on his couch. Because I got _kidnapped_ from the _hospital_ and was not in a _have sex with my ex_ mood.”

“But did you die?” Brendon asked insolently. Patrick was spared having to reply to that by the ambulance screeching to a halt. He hefted his medical bag onto his shoulder and pointed to the LifePak. Brendon rolled his eyes but dutifully picked it up and hopped out of the ambulance after Patrick, jogging through the light drizzle into the Hilton where, apparently, a bunch of toddlers in age-inappropriate clothing and makeup were so important their mothers had to fistfight over them. 

“Ma’am,” Joe was saying to one woman, standing between her and another even as she tried to get around him. “I’m going to have to ask you to calm down please.”

“Calm down?” the woman screeched, at approximately the same decibel level as a plane taking off. Everyone in the vicinity flinched. “That _bitch_ is _cheating_!”

“It’s toddlers,” Brendon whispered in Patrick’s ear, voice slightly high pitched and disbelieving. “How is cheating even relevant? What is happening?”

“Ma’am,” to Patrick’s surprise, it was Sergeant Williams this time, stepping in and putting cuffs on the agitated woman, directing her to a chair and sitting her down. “You can stay here until you calm down, so these paramedics can do their job. Sound good?”

“But she--”

“Nope,” Williams said loudly, lips popping on the ‘p’. “I didn’t ask for anything but a ‘yes’ or ‘no’. So?”

“Whatever,” the woman muttered darkly, slumping over and glaring daggers at Williams, who either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Brendon leaned in closer. 

“Still didn’t answer the question,” he whispered, and Patrick elbowed him, mostly to prevent himself from laughing. It seemed like an inopportune time. 

“Uh,” Joe said loudly and pointedly. “Does one of you want to join us here or are we working alone today?”

“Right away, sir,” Brendon said, darting around Patrick. He stopped by Sarah for a moment, kneeling and saying something, but then stood and walked quickly to Joe, back rigid. Patrick narrowed his eyes but followed, stopping beside Sarah where Brendon had been and setting the medical bag down. 

“What do we have?” he asked her. She looked slightly concerned, but at least didn’t give him shit, so he liked her the most currently. She ripped open a gauze pack and nodded to the teenage girl in front of her. 

“She tried to intervene I think,” Sarah said, then redirected her voice. “Right honey?”

“Yeah,” the girl said thickly. Patrick winced. She had a fat lip, the beginnings of a black eye, and if her nose wasn’t broken she would be the luckiest kid on the planet. Patrick hoped there would be assault charges.

“Ouch,” Patrick said sympathetically. “Are your parents here?”

“Texted them,” she said, waving her bedazzled phone at him. “They said to text them if we leave for the hospital before they make it here. They’re in the Financial district.”

“Okay,” Patrick said. He fished out his penlight. “My name is Patrick. While Sarah finishes up, I’m going to check you for a concussion, is that okay?”

“Yeah,” the girl said again, and, when Sarah nodded and moved back to pull together a nose splint, Patrick ran the girl through a quick concussion test.

“Good,” Patrick said, when she responded well to the light. “Squeeze my fingers--good again! Okay, this is everyone’s favorite part. What’s your name?”

“Alison,” the girl said. Her eye was swelling up faster than Patrick would have liked, so Patrick reached for an ice pack and broke it to activate it, handing it to her. “For my eye?”

At Patrick’s nod, she gingerly pressed it to her eye as Sarah quickly splinted the Alison’s nose, which she bravely stone-faced her way through. Patrick made a mental note to not fuck with teenage girls. 

“Two more questions,” Patrick said. “Do you know where you are?”

“San Francisco, California,” she replied. 

“Who’s the president?”

“Don’t make me say it.”

Patrick laughed and gently squeezed her shoulder. 

“I think you’re gonna be fine,” he said gently. 

“Parents are here,” Sarah murmured, and Patrick nodded, squeezing Alison’s shoulder again. 

“Okay, Alison,” he said. “Your parents are here. What do you say we get you out of here?”

“Yes please,” Alison said, and Patrick was pretty sure she was grinning at him. He gave her one back, plus a thumbs up for good measure, and gestured for Sarah and a paramedic from another house to begin strapping her to a gurney so he could turn and talk to the parents. 

He was, as he expected, immediately accosted. 

“That’s our daughter, that’s Alison, is she okay?” a woman babbled, clinging to another woman’s arm with a white-knuckled grip. Her eyes were wide and wet and red and Patrick felt his heart break a little. 

“Honey,” the other woman said gently. “Let the man speak.” She turned to Patrick. “My name is Cynthia, this is Margaret, we’re Alison’s parents. What happened?”

“I’m just a paramedic, so I can only tell you that medically, Alison is going to be okay,” Patrick said calmly, and Maragaret choked on a sob. “From my general exam, she sustained some facial contusions, and possibly a broken nose, but that won’t be certain until she gets to the hospital. As for what led to the injuries, I know officers will meet you at the hospital to interview Alison and explain everything to you. Right now, my team is getting ready to load Alison into the ambulance, and one of you can go with her, and the other can follow in your car.”

“I’ll go with her,” Margaret said instantly. “I can’t drive, not when I’m like this, anyway.”

“Okay, honey,” Cynthia said, and Margaret raced off to follow the gurney out of the ballroom. Cynthia turned back to Patrick. “Which hospital?”

“We always take patients to UCSF Benioff’s,” he said. “They transfer from there if needed.”

“Thank you,” Cynthia said, shaking her head. “She was here getting community service. I thought _what could possibly go wrong?_ ”

“In my line of work, I’ve learned never to ask that,” Patrick said. Cynthia choked on a laugh. 

“Thank you,” she said again. Patrick nodded and watched her go for a moment before sighing and turning back to Sarah, kneeling and helping her gather the biohazard waste and clean the scene. 

“Apparently,” Sarah said, after Patrick sat back on his heels, wiping a bead of sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. “Alison got the worst of it.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Patrick muttered. “What was the fight even about?”

“Not entirely sure,” Sarah said, sealing the biohazard waste bag and standing. “Just that the scuffle broke out and Alison was an usher and tried to break it up but just got hurt. The two women that started the fight had broken knuckles and one had a tiny cut on her cheek that she was already screaming about calling her plastic surgeon about.”

“Oh, for the love of God,” Patrick said, trying his hardest not to laugh, because he still had an audience of curious onlookers. He glanced over at Joe and Brendon, who were stepping away from the woman they’d been treating, handing her over to two officers despite her incoherent screeching that Patrick assumed were angry threats or maybe just a rant that no one was listening to. 

“She was a treat,” Brendon muttered. His eyes were dark and tone nasty. Patrick frowned; Brendon didn’t usually get his feathers ruffled like this. He got quiet on sad calls sometimes, he rolled his eyes at ridiculous people, but he sounded _angry_. Patrick shot a look at Joe, who gave Patrick an almost imperceptible shake of his head. 

“Which one was she?” Patrick asked, deliberately keeping his tone light. “Broken fingers or the one who wanted a plastic surgeon?”

That worked. Brendon’s attention snapped from whatever he was angry about to Patrick almost immediately. 

“Plastic surgeon?” he asked. Patrick snorted and nodded, raising an arm to the other Paramedic Captain on scene to let him know they were leaving. 

“Apparently,” he said, beginning to herd his collection of children out of the hotel and into the drizzle once more. “One of the women who decided toddlers were worth fistfighting over got a small cut on her cheek and panicked about needing her plastic surgeon for it.”

“What?” Joe said, disbelieving. “Are you joking?”

“Not even a little,” Sarah snorted. Their ambulance was still waiting for them, and Sarah swung the backdoor open, tugging the biohazard box out and dropping her bag inside before taking her gloves off and doing the same. Patrick followed suit, along with Joe and Brendon, and one glance between Patrick and Joe was all it took. 

“I’m driving,” Joe said, followed quickly by Sarah’s declaration of: “Shotgun.”

“Assholes,” Patrick muttered, without heat. He hauled himself into the back, Brendon wordlessly following, slamming the backdoors behind them, leaving them in silence. 

Patrick gave it about three seconds. 

“What’s up,” he said bluntly, as Joe started the engine. He sat next to Brendon, bumping his shoulder against Brendon’s bony ass one, and Brendon sighed, leaning his head back against the wall. Patrick let him stew, watched him bounce his leg and chew his lip until he heaved another sigh and rolled his head to look at Patrick. 

“The teenager,” he said. Patrick must have looked confused, because Brendon elaborated. “That you were working on.”

“Oh,” Patrick said. “Alison. What about her?”

Brendon sighed again, and returned his gaze to the ambulance ceiling. His jaw worked, chewing on nothing in the way he did when he was trying not to cry, and since when had Patrick known this kid long enough to know how it looked when he was trying not to cry? 

Brendon looked tired, and raw, his eyes wet and skin pale, stubble standing out in stark relief. He was wearing the long sleeved uniform today, but Patrick knew that underneath, one arm was tattooed from shoulder to wrist. Patrick knew Brendon’s parents refused to speak to him, threw him out when he came out at fourteen. Brendon grew up on his big sister’s couch, got his EMT certificate as soon as he turned eighteen. He joined Station 1833 as soon as he finished his probationary period and he’d been with them ever since. 

Patrick knew Brendon dated a cop for his first two years here, and that was why he was so against Bob. Patrick knew Brendon was saving up for top surgery, because the American healthcare system was a trainwreck. Patrick knew Brendon was someone with a big, pure heart, but someone who was also a consummate professional after five years on the job, and he never let things get to him like this. 

The death in the car accident was one thing.

This anger at a patient was another.

“Brendon?” Patrick asked, and it was like the floodgates opened. Brendon burst into tears, hitched, painful sounding tears, bringing his knees up to bury his face into, shoulders shaking. Shocked, mouth hanging open, Patrick resisted the urge to look around the rig he knew damn well was empty and hesitantly laid a hand on Brendon’s shoulder instead. “Are you okay?”

“The girl, she tried to stop them,” Brendon managed to choke out. “Because they were fighting in front of toddlers, who does that? But I guess—I don’t know, I guess one of the women knew the girl before she was out and—and _told_ the other woman, and _that’s_ why—in front of those _kids_ , Patrick! And s-she didn’t even fight back, she didn’t want to escalate it, I g-got to her first and she _begged_ me to keep the other woman away from her.”

“Oh,” Patrick breathed out. He was speechless. He honestly didn’t know what to say; he had no experience with anything like this, Brendon was the first person he’d known this well that was trans, he didn’t know how it felt to be Brendon, and he hadn’t known that Alison was trans, either. He hesitantly slid his hand to Brendon’s other shoulder and Brendon fell sideways until he was leaning against Patrick’s chest, still crying, but it didn’t sound like it was being ripped from his chest anymore. Small victories. “I’m sorry, Bren.”

“I was being professional,” Brendon whispered, and Patrick believed him. Brendon was nothing but professional. He’d been spat on before and just carried on. “I was just trying to do my job while this woman, she was still trying to shout at the teenager, horrible things, and I think Joe could tell I was upset, because he told her to keep her voice down. And she went off about it being _a free country_ and called him a— you know— so—and I’m sorry, Patrick—so I told her to shut the fuck up. And I know I shouldn’t have. I know I shouldn’t have, Patrick, I’m sorry.”

“It was a stressful situation,” Patrick said gently. “You were handling it the best you could. Besides. I didn’t hear you say that. Not like I can write you up for something I didn’t hear.”

Brendon sniffled into Patrick’s chest. 

“She kind of stared at me,” Brendon said, and his voice was dull and lifeless now. “The way people do when I don’t quite pass in, like, Target. And she asked if I was one, too.”

“Fuck,” Patrick said. He gave Brendon a light squeeze. “I’m sorry, Brendon.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Brendon mumbled. “Joe got in between us and pushed her away and gave her to the officers and said we were done treating her. I don’t know if they heard or what but they didn’t even check, they just took her.”

“What a fucking nightmare,” Patrick said. “Brendon, I’m so sorry. I know I can’t understand what happened, but what can I do?”

“Can I go home?” Brendon asked, voice cracking. “I know it’s late notice, but Spencer is off today, and—”

“Of course,” Patrick interrupted, and Brendon gave him a tiny, grateful smile, at odds with his red cheeks and still watery eyes. “Brendon, of course.”

“Thank you,” Brendon said, and they rode the rest of the way back to the station in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why yes i am projecting but onto which character? you decide
> 
> also i still have covid WEAR YOUR GODDAMN MASKS PEOPLE


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You mean the truck that you dragged kicking and screaming out of the eighties finally gave out on you?” Patrick asked, smirking. “I’m _shocked_.”
> 
> “You’re mean,” Pete pouted. He started the engine—Patrick filed away seven comments about how much less pollution Pete was contributing now—and glanced over at Patrick, eyebrow raised. “Wanna, like, grab food?”
> 
> “Food?” Patrick echoed. Pete’s shoulders went tense.
> 
> “Yeah, food,” he said defensively. “People usually eat food a few times a day.”
> 
> “Calm down,” Patrick said, and he’d die before he’d ever admit it out loud, but there might have been a little affection in his voice. The tension bled out of Pete’s body all at once and his lips quirked up in a stupid smile. “I mostly meant that I was fairly sure I _just_ saw you put away like, five pieces of pizza an hour ago.”
> 
> “I’m eating for two,” Pete said loftily, shifting the car into drive and pulling into traffic, ignoring the three people that honked angrily at him. He tossed a grin to Patrick before returning his gaze to the road. “Me and my tapeworm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your patience, everyone. i’m feeling a little bit better. i love you all.

“Heard you got dealt a bad hand today,” Pete said carefully, watching Patrick walk out of the locker room warily. Patrick shoved his hands in his coat pockets and sighed. “Wanna talk about it?”

“No,” Patrick said shortly, then conceded: “But I will. Did you get a new car?”

Pete puffed out his chest. He looked _ridiculous_.

“Do you like it?” he asked. 

“No,” Patrick said dryly.

“I wanted something a little more sophisticated,” Pete continued, as if Patrick hadn’t spoken. Patrick rolled his eyes. Pete fumbled with his keys and hit the unlock button, gesturing to the passenger seat like the 2011 Honda Accord was the latest Mustang. 

“You mean the truck that you dragged kicking and screaming out of the eighties finally gave out on you?” Patrick asked, smirking. “I’m _shocked_.”

“You’re mean,” Pete pouted. He started the engine—Patrick filed away seven comments about how much less pollution Pete was contributing now—and glanced over at Patrick, eyebrow raised. “Wanna, like, grab food?”

“Food?” Patrick echoed. Pete’s shoulders went tense.

“Yeah, food,” he said defensively. “People usually eat food a few times a day.”

“Calm down,” Patrick said, and he’d die before he’d ever admit it out loud, but there might have been a little affection in his voice. The tension bled out of Pete’s body all at once and his lips quirked up in a stupid smile. “I mostly meant that I was fairly sure I _just_ saw you put away like, five pieces of pizza an hour ago.”

“I’m eating for two,” Pete said loftily, shifting the car into drive and pulling into traffic, ignoring the three people that honked angrily at him. He tossed a grin to Patrick before returning his gaze to the road. “Me and my tapeworm.”

Patrick laughed before he could stop himself, slapping a hand over his mouth to muffle the ugly snorting noises. A flush spread across Pete’s cheeks, a pleased expression on his face, and Patrick tried to gather himself.

“I hate you,” he said, but there was no heat in it at all. Pete winked at him and Patrick swallowed hard to control the butterflies. “Yeah. We had a fight at a toddler striptease. Brendon got accosted. I sent him home.”

“Back up,” Pete said. 

“Kiddie pageant,” Patrick said. Pete made an understanding noise and gestured for Patrick to continue. “Anyway, one of our patients was super transphobic and it shook Brendon up.”

“Nothing shakes that kid up,” Pete commented, shooting him a look from the corner of his eye as he cut across two lanes of traffic to run a red light. Patrick swore, but Pete ignored him. “How are _you_ though?”

“Me?” Patrick asked. “I’m fine.”

“Right,” Pete said, in that tone Patrick hated. The first few fat drops of rain that had been threatening to fall for the past couple of hours hit Pete’s windshield, and Patrick ground his teeth together, trying to avoid launching into another fight. He’d spent hours after their breakup trying to figure out how he went from deciding Pete was his soulmate to fighting with him every other day, but he never managed to get there. 

Maybe Pete really had grown, because he didn’t say anything after that, just kept his eyes on the road, flicking on his wipers when the few drops gave way to a steady rainfall, slicking the steep streets of San Francisco. 

Patrick reached deep inside himself and found an old, battered olive branch. 

“How many people are gonna rear end cars because the drizzle earlier wasn’t enough practice?” he asked. There was a moment, a long moment, where Patrick thought his olive branch was too worn to be accepted, but then Pete snorted and his grip on the steering wheel relaxed a fraction of an inch. 

“Californians will drive successfully through an earthquake before they learn how to handle rain,” he said, and Patrick’s lips twitched. Pete glanced at him, then back at the road. “It needs good old Midwestern boys like us on the roads. Balance things out.”

“I don’t drive,” Patrick informed Pete.

“Yeah?” Pete asked, a smirk sliding across his unfairly pretty face. “What do you call that big box truck thing at work?”

“You’re insufferable,” Patrick said. Pete pulled over to the side of the road, and a glance around told Patrick they were back in his neighborhood. He looked at Pete, who was hunched over uncomfortably in the driver’s seat. “Pete?”

“I know you’re an adult,” Pete said, all in a rush. “And I know it’s up to you, but you know they ROR’d him, and--I just want you to know you can stay at mine as long as you like. No pressure.”

Patrick smiled at him, faint but genuine. Pete’s face was open and earnest and he was holding onto the steering wheel like it was a life preserver holding his head above turbulent waters. His eyes were wide, wide open, and Patrick felt for a moment that if he looked hard enough, all of Pete’s secrets were on display. 

“He’s already displayed his capacity for breaking the law,” Patrick said quietly. “And given that he knows where I live and has a key, it’s probably not best for me to stay here.”

Pete swallowed audibly, and Patrick sighed. 

“So yes, I will stay at your place,” he said. “Provided we stop at Target or something for an air mattress because I am _not_ twenty two and I can’t sleep on the couch for God knows how long.”

Pete’s answering smile was blinding. It made something warm burn in Patrick’s stomach, climbing up to his chest, until Patrick’s hand slid across the center console and rested on Pete’s tense thigh.

He squeezed it, gently, and grinned back.

“Come help me grab some stuff?” he asked, and Pete nodded so quickly, Patrick tried not to laugh. 

Neither of them had umbrellas, so it was a duck-and-run operation across the street and up the stairs. They were out of breath but laughing when Patrick managed to get his key in the lock and open the door, cutting their elation short like a punch to the stomach. It was like the air had been sucked out from around them, replaced by eerie silence, as they stared at what was left of Patrick’s apartment.

“Oh my fucking God,” Pete said quietly. 

Patrick couldn’t say anything. His eyes couldn’t decide where to look first. The stupid, overstuffed couch he’d seen in a Goodwill when he’d first moved to California? The one that had seen three apartments with him and was now ripped to shreds, stuffing coming out? The pictures on his walls in mismatched frames, all smashed on the ground? Every dish he owned in pieces on the kitchen floor? 

All of that hurt, of course, but the worst part was probably taking a step forward and realizing the piles of ripped up paper on his otherwise strangely clean coffee table were in fact every single one of his certifications and commendations he’d ever received on the job.

He let out a choked sob. 

“Patrick,” Pete said urgently, catching his arm. “We have to call the police.”

“I know who did this,” Patrick said, bewildered. He felt lost. He felt dizzy. “Call the police for _what_?”

“For evidence,” Pete said. “He’s escalating. He’s _dangerous_.”

“I’m such a fucking idiot,” Patrick said, voice cracking. Pete fumbled for Patrick’s hands and squeezed, shaking his head emphatically. 

“It’s not your fault,” he said. “Patrick, it’s not your fault. Come on. Let’s go back to my car. We’ll call the police. It’ll be okay.”

“Okay,” Patrick whispered, and Pete hesitated before ducking to press a kiss to Patrick’s forehead. Patrick closed his eyes for a moment before nodding, turning with Pete towards the door. 

For the second time in less than a half hour, Patrick felt like he’d been sucker punched in the gut, stealing his air and any calm Pete may have managed to give him. His grip on Pete’s hand was so tight it hurt and he felt like he couldn’t breathe, trembling where he stood. 

From the still-open doorway, Bob grinned, flanked by two guys Patrick didn’t know. 

Patrick’s stomach fell straight through the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *through gritted teeth* sorry......


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They didn’t,” Bob said, voice closer to a whine, and God, did Patrick hate that. He shoved that into the Trusty Sarcasm Box, too. “And then, you break up with me? In the hospital? With _him_ there? I thought you were in danger, obviously.”
> 
> _Oh, obviously!_ Patrick thought hysterically. The ability Bob had to rationalize every insane thing he did was kind of scary now that Patrick was quite literally face to face with it. He kind of wanted to hold his restraining order up in front of him like a priest at an exorcism with a Bible, but he figured that probably wouldn’t help with his plan to keep Bob calm. 
> 
> “See?” one of Bob’s friends cut in. “It was just a misunderstanding.”
> 
> “Shut up, Shane,” Bob snapped, before turning to look back at Patrick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember that you all love me. 
> 
> and wear your damn masks.

_This cannot be happening_ was all Patrick could think, over and over, a loop in his head. Because it was true. This couldn’t be happening. Could Patrick _please_ have _one goddamn day_ where some wild, unforeseen shit didn’t fucking happen?

“Bryar,” Pete said, and his voice was halfway between _placating_ and _firm_ and he was standing between Patrick and Bob. Patrick wanted to fling himself out the nearest window, but he doubted that would be productive. “This isn’t how you get what you want.”

“How do _you_ know what I want?” Bob demanded. He hadn’t tried to get to Patrick yet, but it was only a matter of time, given that there were three of them and one of Pete.

_He’s got a point_ Patrick thought, a little hysterically. He felt a buzz on his wrist and, out of habit, tapped his watch to silence his _for fuck’s sake, drink water_ reminder that was set to go off at eight every evening. 

He froze. 

Pulling his phone out would definitely cause Bob to lose his cool, but if he and Pete could stall Bob long enough--

Before he could think about it much more--or possibly talk himself out of it, which was definitely not outside the realm of possibility--he hit the side button three times, letting his wrist fall to the side as his watch buzzed to notify him that emergency services were being called--and his contacts were being notified.

Which Bob wasn’t one of.

Thank God for foresight. Or procrastination. Whichever one this qualified as. 

“Bob,” Patrick finally said, voice a little hoarse from his dry-mouthed internal panic. “Let’s just--come on, can we please just talk? We’re both adults. We have jobs. We can deal with this like adults.”

“Yeah right,” Bob snorted. “You’re just going to call the cops.”

“You _are_ the cops,” Patrick pointed out, and Bob frowned, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “Bob. Come on. We don’t have to act like fucking teenagers.”

Bob hesitated, and so did his two friends, all three of them exchanging looks. Pete threw a glance back at Patrick, a wrinkle between his eyes, but Patrick just met his gaze steadily, pleading with his eyes to just _trust him_. 

It worked, it must’ve, because Pete rolled his shoulders back and turned to face Bob again. Patrick took a slow, deep breath, imagining Brendon and Joe getting their texts, hoping against hope help would actually arrive soon. 

“Okay,” Bob said. “Okay, fine. Why’d you dump me?”

_Don’t snap_ Patrick told himself firmly. 

“You kidnapped me out of the hospital,” Patrick snapped. Well, fuck. Nobody ever accused Patrick of having a good handle on his emotions at the best of times, after all. “You scared the life out of me.”

“I scared _you?_ ” Bob asked, like he couldn’t believe it. Patrick tried very hard not to make a face. “You scared _me_! You never told me you were in the hospital.”

Oh _boy_ , was there a lot Patrick wanted to say to _that_ , but he forced it all back down into what Pete used to call his Trusty Sarcasm Box and tried to fumble together some sort of sentence that would keep Bob relatively calm. 

“There was a lot happening,” he said flatly, pinching Pete in the ribs just out of Bob’s line of sight to keep him from talking and ruining the moment, which was inevitable. “I assumed my team would have told you. I’m sorry.”

“They didn’t,” Bob said, voice closer to a whine, and God, did Patrick hate that. He shoved that into the Trusty Sarcasm Box, too. “And then, you break up with me? In the hospital? With _him_ there? I thought you were in danger, obviously.”

_Oh, obviously!_ Patrick thought hysterically. The ability Bob had to rationalize every insane thing he did was kind of scary now that Patrick was quite literally face to face with it. He kind of wanted to hold his restraining order up in front of him like a priest at an exorcism with a Bible, but he figured that probably wouldn’t help with his plan to keep Bob calm. 

“See?” one of Bob’s friends cut in. “It was just a misunderstanding.”

“Shut up, Shane,” Bob snapped, before turning to look back at Patrick. “So? You get it now, right?”

“Sure,” Patrick lied. “But--why wreck m---our apartment?”

He pinched Pete preemptively again. Now was really, _really_ not the time. Pete had the gift of starting an argument over three quarters and a nickel and Patrick really didn’t want this to become a talent show. He just wanted Bob to keep running his mouth.

“I lost my cool,” Bob said. Patrick hoped his face remained impassive. He choked on about twelve phrases from his inner Box and refrained from pinching Pete again, this time just for fun. He caught sight of a flash of light outside the living room window, blocked from Bob’s line of sight, and his heart leapt into his throat. 

“You ruined all my stuff,” Patrick said. In his head, he kept chanting _keep talking, keep talking._ “That’s kind of unfair.”

“Oh my God, he really is a whiny bitch,” the third man said, the only one that hadn’t spoken so far. Patrick blinked in surprise and forgot entirely to pinch Pete. 

Probably because his mouth was open and running first. 

“Excuse me?” he demanded, looking from Bob, who vaguely resembled an overboiled potato, to the one Bob called Shane, who was staring at the ceiling like maybe _it_ was planning to chime in at any point, to the third man, the smallest of the three by far, who was scowling, hands shoved in sweatshirt pockets. Patrick had a sudden jolt of fear--were any of them carrying?

“Ryan, you had one job,” Bob snapped, and Patrick raised an eyebrow. 

“Ryan?” he asked. “Ryan Ross?”

“Who’s asking?” Bob demanded, whirling back to face Patrick. “Don’t worry about him, he’s just an asshole.”

“Are we doing this or not?” Shane asked, and Bob whirled on him this time.

“Doing what?” Pete cut in, backing up until he was practically on top of Patrick. Patrick would never admit it, even under pain of death, but he wound his hand in Pete’s shirt and hung on tight. “What the hell is going on?”

“Would everyone just shut up?” Bob shouted, gesturing wildly, eyes a little crazed. “Let me focus for one goddamn--”

“Are you familiar with a restraining order, Mr. Bryar?” 

“Not this shit again,” Bob hissed, whirling on whoever had spoken. “I was invited here.”

“Right,” was the reply, and Sergeant Williams stepped into view. “That’s why I was called. I see you brought your fellow ex officers with you. Gentlemen.”

“I didn’t know about any restraining order,” Ryan said, looking uncomfortable. “I didn’t do anything. I was just leaving.”

“Nice try,” Williams said dryly. “Bryar, when you’re ROR’d and you violate a restraining order, you’re automatically remanded. You know that, right?”

“Remanded?” Bob asked, like the concept was foreign to him. “I have no record. I’m a former officer. I’ll be a target.”

“We’ll get you protective custody,” Williams said, with a tone that suggested she had no intention of following through with that offer. “But you must not have paid attention at your arraignment. Those were the terms, Mr. Bryar.”

“Patrick invited me!” Bob insisted. He turned to Patrick, wide-eyed and earnest, and Patrick almost thought that Bob _believed himself_. “Tell her, Patrick.”

“No,” Patrick said. “Because I didn’t. And because you tore my apartment apart. And because you’re crazy.”

“Bob Bryar, you’re under arrest,” Sergeant Williams said, and Bob’s eyes went a little glassy. Patrick took a half step back--he’d never seen that expression on Bob’s face before, a look of desperation and panic, and he had a distinct feeling in the pit of his stomach that something bad was about to happen. 

It was like real life slowed way, way down, into slow motion. 

Bob reached into his waistband and pulled out a gun. Patrick didn’t even _register_ the panicked thought of _oh God, he’s armed_ before Ryan was pulling one from his pocket, too, firing one shot at Williams.

Patrick watched Williams grab her side and fall to the ground with wide, disbelieving eyes as Bob stalked across the room. He grabbed Pete by the hair, easily shoving Patrick away before smacking Pete across the face with the butt of the gun, letting him hit the ground carelessly. 

Patrick looked from Williams to Pete to Bob and his two friends and the last thing he remembered was _help didn’t come fast enough_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REMEMBER THAT YOU ALL LOVE ME.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick blinked tiredly as his head throbbed harder and the dripping got louder. He narrowed his eyes back at the window and focused: there was minimal noise from outside--the occasional car passing by, wheels on wet road, a faraway siren-- and that steady drip-drip-drip was the clearest thing he could hear. It was right up against the window, like maybe a drainpipe leaking, or a loose hose fitting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter is so short, it just cut so awkwardly with the other half. also i am tired so please just take it. i love you all. send aloe to snitches.

Patrick woke up slowly, head pounding in time with a dripping sound he couldn’t place. He groaned and forced his eyes open, one at a time, his lashes feeling glued together, eyes gummy with exhaustion.

He lifted his head, vertebrae groaning with the effort, blinking against the headrush. Reflexively, he tried to rub at his temples, to check his head for blood, but his wrists just flexed behind his back, metal clinking together in the otherwise dim and quiet   
room. 

His shoulders took that opportunity to declare their discomfort, and as he blinked the last of the blurriness out of his vision, the rest of his body joined in.

“Fuck,” he grunted. He wondered if there was a single spot on his body that _didn’t_ hurt, but he doubted it. He frowned, squinting a little as he looked around the room. 

It was a living room, from the looks of it. A big bay window was partially shielded by a thin, semi-translucent curtain, through which already grey light turned greyer. Scattered around the living room was furniture, arranged casually, like this room was well lived in and maybe someone would be walking in any moment and be shocked to see Patrick here. 

Patrick blinked tiredly as his head throbbed harder and the dripping got louder. He narrowed his eyes back at the window and focused: there was minimal noise from outside--the occasional car passing by, wheels on wet road, a faraway siren-- and that steady drip-drip-drip was the clearest thing he could hear. It was right up against the window, like maybe a drainpipe leaking, or a loose hose fitting.

Movement from Patrick’s peripheral vision made him jump and groan again as the movement made lights go off behind his eyes. He held himself still, willing the world to quit spinning and his stomach to stay calm, before focusing on the source of the movement. 

To his surprise, it was a TV. Not in this room, in one room over, on the opposite side of the front door. It was on mute, but the flickering images caught Patrick’s gaze every so often. Patrick craned, but he wasn’t at a good angle to see what was on the TV or, more alarmingly, if anyone was watching. 

He exhaled slowly, trying to push down the panic. Now was not a fantastic time for it. Not while he was sitting in a dark room, handcuffed to a chair with a possible head injury.

His head ached and Patrick winced and corrected himself.

Probable head injury. 

Patrick exhaled again and tried to focus. Okay. Operating under the assumption that there was another human being in the house somewhere, and that human being probably didn’t want Patrick to escape, Patrick’s next moves had to be as quiet as possible. 

He flexed his wrists again. The handcuffs protested, as did his shoulders. He ignored them both, looking down at himself. 

He seemed to be sitting in a wooden chair, with a higher back. His legs were free, but they were, frankly, useless with Patrick’s arms handcuffed behind him. Patrick bit his lip and cast his thoughts around frantically.

A car drove by. The handcuffs scraped against the wood of the chair. Patrick sat up straight. 

_His feet were free._

How much of a dumbass was he?

He squirmed on the chair until he was as far back as possible, then tucked one foot, then the other under him, gritting his teeth when his shoulders screamed in pain. It didn’t matter. They could deal with it for thirty seconds. 

Carefully, he stood, thighs shaking, handcuffed wrists dragging along the back of the chair. Somewhat hysterically, he crossed off _handcuffed sex_ on his list of _things to do if he decides to get back with Pete_ and his breath caught in his throat as he stood up straight on the chair, wrists still locked behind him but no longer tied down. 

Patrick choked back tears that he was certain were just part of his growing traumatic brain injury and stepped off the chair onto the ground as quietly as possible. He stilled, listening hard, but the only sounds he heard were the slowly-growing traffic outside and that goddamned dripping.

He sighed, rotating his wrists. He was actually kind of glad he was in cuffs, because out of everything Bob could have used to restrain him, handcuffs were the easiest thing for Patrick to escape from. 

Because Patrick was just returning from _work_. He was still in his work clothes. He still had a few pieces of equipment on him he hadn’t taken off yet, and Bob was entirely too self-centered to have ever asked or noticed or given a shit about what Patrick took to work with him. 

So, on his right hip was a little pouch with a small pocketknife, a couple of other random tools, and a handcuff key, in case they had to quickly treat someone in handcuffs.

Patrick couldn’t help the smirk that crossed his face as he twisted just enough to stick his fingers in and snatch the key up between two fingers. It took less than a minute for the handcuffs to fall off and Patrick sighed in relief, rubbing his wrists for a second before sliding the key back in his pouch and scowling down at the handcuffs, kicking them with distaste. 

He glanced around before stepping cautiously closer to the front door--and the still-on TV--taking every step with bated breath. As he rounded the corner, a couch came into view, surrounded by empty beer bottles and a vodka bottle or several. Passed out on the couch and sprawled across any available floor space were his three kidnappers, apparently too goddamn hammered to have heard anything he’d just done. 

A glance at the TV told him it had to have been on since last night, because none of these geniuses struck Patrick to be the type to watch the six AM news, but that was about as far as his concern extended. He retreated quietly, none of them stirring, and cracked open the front door, slipping out of the house and onto the streets of San Francisco in the morning light.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He’s right to be concerned about you,” Pete said seriously, though that warm smile was still at play. “You were literally just kidnapped like 24 hours ago.”
> 
> “Kidnapped is such a strong word,” Patrick complained, and Pete snorted and rolled his eyes. “It was like...a vacation.”
> 
> “Right,” Pete said, raising an eyebrow as Brendon poorly stifled his giggles into his sweatshirt. “A vacation. With collateral damage.”
> 
> “Go big or go home,” Patrick said weakly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want to thank y’all for your patience while i struggled through adjusting to the start of school, transitioned to 60 hours a week of work, my county once again burning down around me, fighting off the ‘rona, and a good old fashioned bipolar episode. you’ve been so good to me. 
> 
> i’m back and hopefully on schedule again. i hope y’all will hop on the train again. there are some turbulent tracks ahead.
> 
> love ya.

“Fine,” Patrick said for the millionth time, resisting the urge to bat Joe’s hand away. “I’m _fine_. I just came from the _actual hospital_ , Joe. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t have discharged me if I wasn’t fine.”

“You walked like five miles with a traumatic brain injury,” Joe said fussily. “I’m sorry for worrying about my best friend.”

“It was three blocks and he had a concussion,” Brendon said loudly, tilting his head back over the arm of the couch and giving Joe an impressively unimpressed look for being upside down. “Can we talk about how he thinks he’s going to work tomorrow instead?”

“I am going to work tomorrow,” Patrick said firmly. Joe sputtered indignantly, but Patrick didn’t give him a chance to talk, continuing loudly instead. “Because I have been cleared to go to work if I want and also I’m an adult.”

“You have a _gaping head wound_ ,” Joe said, gesturing at Patrick’s forehead like Patrick had forgotten where, exactly, his head was located. 

“It is not _gaping_ ,” Patrick said irritably. “I have stitches. Is that all? Can I go?”

“Go where?” Brendon asked dryly. “Your apartment is a crime scene. And, not that I care or anything, but I think it’s probably pretty rude to leave while the person who got pistol whipped trying to protect you is in the shower.”

Patrick tried very hard not to think about Pete in the shower. 

“Why are you two here again?” he asked instead. “Just to annoy me?”

“Wow,” Brendon said. “Your gratitude. It’s overwhelming. No, stop, it’s fine.”

Patrick scoffed but gave up, shoulders slumping, and sat. Brendon lifted his legs just enough for Patrick to slide in before unceremoniously plopping them back down, suspiciously heavily. Patrick glanced from them to Joe’s smug look and rolled his eyes, stomach protesting with the movement. 

“I’ve fallen into your trap,” he intoned. “Now what?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Joe lied blatantly, examining his nails. “Travie says you have like two weeks of sick time.”

“Why are you talking to Travie about my sick time?” Patrick asked. He couldn’t prove it, but he swore Brendon made his legs heavier somehow. As if Patrick had any energy to escape. Sick time probably wouldn’t be a bad idea, except that would mean Bob won, and Patrick wasn’t yielding an inch to that asshole. 

That and his apartment was a crime scene, and he was fine staying at Pete’s when Pete was here, but if he was forced to hang around Pete’s while Pete was at work, surrounded by so much of him and so many memories, Patrick might go insane. 

Not that he’d ever admit that. 

“I’m concerned about you, dickwad,” Joe said, in what Patrick guessed passed for affection. He glanced behind Patrick and Patrick refrained from twisting around to see who it was. He knew who it was. He focused on not blushing like a goddamn twelve year old. It was the head wound. “Tell him I’m right to be concerned about him.”

“It is surreal that we’re even speaking to him,” Brendon said under his breath as Pete stepped into the den. Before Patrick gave his body permission, his head tipped back to rest against the couch and he looked up at Pete.

His hair was damp and curling against his forehead and ears. Patrick remembered how it felt in his hands when Pete would crawl into bed with him, nuzzling into Patrick’s neck and laughing at Patrick’s sleepy protests. His skin, every inch of it familiar, had new tattoos that Patrick suddenly wanted to learn. He hated the fact that there were parts of Pete he didn’t know, now, and that was only on his arms. Who knew what was under Pete’s shirt?

Patrick’s eyes lingered in the nasty, bruised, stitched cut on Pete’s forehead. He frowned, but that only made Pete smile fondly and shake his head, drops of water falling from his hair onto Patrick’s face. 

“He’s right to be concerned about you,” Pete said seriously, though that warm smile was still at play. “You were literally just kidnapped like 24 hours ago.”

“Kidnapped is such a strong word,” Patrick complained, and Pete snorted and rolled his eyes. “It was like...a vacation.”

“Right,” Pete said, raising an eyebrow as Brendon poorly stifled his giggles into his sweatshirt. “A vacation. With collateral damage.”

“Go big or go home,” Patrick said weakly. Pete rolled his eyes. “Listen. I know you guys are worried. I get it. I do. But I _want_ to work. I don’t want to sit around and think about all this….bullshit. I want to go do my job. Please.”

A moment of silence passed in which all three of them exchanged unsubtle glances. Patrick wondered if spontaneous combustion was actually as rare as Wikipedia said it was. It was fine. There was a firefighter here and everything.

“Okay, _fine_ ,” Joe announced, as if he was actually in charge here. “You can go to work.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Patrick said dryly. Joe pointed one threatening finger at him. 

“But if I decide you’re done, you’re done,” he said triumphantly. Patrick just raised an eyebrow. Joe huffed, rolling his eyes and pointing at Pete. “And he’ll back me up.”

“I am not afraid of Pete,” Patrick said.

“I didn’t say you were,” Joe said, shrugging. “But I know you hate disappointing people. And imagine how _disappointed_ we’ll be if you hurt yourself by working too hard.”

“I hate you all,” Patrick said.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “...and that’s how I saved Christmas,” Joe said loudly.
> 
> “Awesome,” Patrick replied vacantly, staring down at the first aid box, trying to remember what was missing. Band aids. Gauze. Burn cream. Wipes.
> 
> “Okay, so you’re not listening,” Joe said. “I think your concussion has turned into a brain bleed. Brendon, you’re driving.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is dedicated to the chemical burn on my scalp from dying my hair <3
> 
> oh and also to all y’all. *glinda voice* i hope you’re happy now

It felt a little bit like Patrick was existing in a blur. He kept that information to himself, mostly because he didn’t need the lecture--he had a tiny voice in his ear that already sounded _remarkably_ like Joe telling him how stupid he was, he didn’t need the full size version--but the fact remained that he was pretty sure the only reason his job got done was through autopilot and muscle memory.

“...and that’s how I saved Christmas,” Joe said loudly.

“Awesome,” Patrick replied vacantly, staring down at the first aid box, trying to remember what was missing. Band aids. Gauze. Burn cream. Wipes.

“Okay, so you’re not listening,” Joe said. “I think your concussion has turned into a brain bleed. Brendon, you’re driving.”

“I’m listening,” Patrick said irritably. Band aids. Gauze. Burn cream. “You saved Christmas. I got that. Some of us are working.”

“You’ve been staring at the first aid box for like six hours,” Joe pointed out. Patrick wanted to glare at him, but he was afraid if he took his gaze off the box, he’d really forget what was missing and he knew it was right at the tip of his tongue. Burn cream. Wipes. 

“Fifteen minutes,” Patrick corrected. “At _most_. Don’t you have work to do? I distinctly remember assigning you guys work to do this morning.”

“You were a lot more fun before you got kidnapped,” Joe said, before hauling himself out of the back of the ambulance and leaving Patrick in blessed, blessed silence. Burn cream. _Wipes._

“Tape,” Brendon said quietly, over Patrick’s shoulder, before slipping past him and hopping out of the ambulance, too. He leaned in for a moment, looking Patrick over. “If you need something, you can ask. Joe’s being overdramatic.”

Brendon didn’t give Patrick any time to answer, just pushed himself away and walked deeper into the station. Once alone, Patrick exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment before reaching for a roll of medical tape and closing the basic first aid kit.

He was fine. Really. He was fine. Just a small headache and a small tremor in his hands and a small leap in his chest every time he saw a cop out of the corner of his eye. Basically nothing. Bob was a dumb motherfucker, nothing Patrick couldn’t handle, and he’d been like that since always. It didn’t matter. It was whatever. 

Patrick set the first aid box back into its place with a little too much force.

“Was it talking shit about you, too?”

Patrick yelped and nearly jumped out of his skin, narrowly missing banging his head on the top of the ambulance. He whirled around to face Pete, who backed up several steps, holding out his hands placatingly. He was in regular clothes, not his uniform, and had a knit hat shoved over his curls. His eyes were soft but cautious as he looked Patrick over. 

Patrick’s chest heaved. 

“You took me by surprise.”

It was a weak excuse, even Patrick could tell it was a weak excuse, but Pete took it for what it was and stepped forward again, until he was leaning against the ambulance and could drop his voice a little. 

“How’s your day been?” he asked conversationally, folding his arms in an impressive facade of normalcy. Patrick snorted and began wiping down the blood pressure cuffs. His hands were still shaking a little, but Pete didn’t comment on it. 

“You know,” Patrick said, going for casual but voice coming out a little breathless and strained instead. “The usual. A car accident. Overdoses. People who just scraped their knees but insist on an ambulance ride to the emergency room.”

“Oh yes,” Pete said solemnly, nodding. “The most important.”

“But nothing major,” Patrick finished, then reached up and banged three times on the roof automatically, to guard against jinxing the station. “So far. You? You’re not in uniform.”

“Yeah,” Pete said. “I had a change of heart. Figured I probably didn’t do my best work hurt.”

“It’s not going to work,” Patrick said, dropping the clean equipment into its boxes and picking up the heart monitor leads. “I’m already here, I’ve worked all day. I’m fine.”

Pete hummed an affirmative, drawing it out sarcastically, but Patrick steadfastly refused to look at him, focusing on sanitizing the leads instead. He had a job to do. He wasn’t about to let nosy ex boyfriends call the shots. 

“Look,” Patrick said, after Pete didn’t continue. “Maybe you can’t do your job hurt, but my job isn’t as dangerous as yours and you actually need to rest, unlike me--”

“Are you trying to say being a firefighter is somehow harder than being an EMT?” Pete interrupted incredulously. “Now I know you have a head injury. Come on, we’re going home.”

“Pete, I’m serious,” Patrick said, not budging even when Pete leaned into the ambulance and grabbed his wrist. _“Pete--”_

“Patrick,” Pete said back, turning to face him, and wow, when had they gotten that close? Pete had one foot in the ambulance and one foot out, long fingers wrapped around Patrick’s wrist, which brought him only a couple inches from Patrick’s face. 

Patrick’s breath caught. 

Pete’s eyes, those fucking gorgeous eyes that Patrick once-upon-a-time could write songs about, were locked on his, and his fingers on Patrick’s wrist sent shocks up Patrick’s arm and Patrick _swore_ his heart was in his throat. His mouth was dry and for the first time in like, a week, Bob was the absolute furthest thing from his mind. 

How easy would it be? How easy would it be to just lean in? To forget the screaming and the fighting and why they broke up in the first place? 

Because Patrick _missed_ Pete, he missed Pete so much, even when he tried to hate Pete, he missed him. Nobody got Patrick like Pete did, no one fit him the same way, and Patrick didn’t know if he’d burnt every single bridge he’d built with the match he’d struck that day or not, but he didn’t think he wanted to go back to the time Pete was shut out of his life. 

“I know you’re stubborn,” Pete said, and oh, right, they were at _work_ and they were having an argument. How could Patrick forget. “But you need to take care of yourself and I swear to God if you’re about to say you’re fine right now--”

Patrick kissed him. 

Either they were still connected at the hip or Pete was on the same wavelength because he was kissing Patrick back with no hesitation at all and _yes_ it was everything Patrick remembered and more. 

Because now there was stubble under Patrick’s fingers when he pressed them to the curve of Pete’s jaw, and now Pete wore a different cologne, something smoother than he did before, and there was more muscle under the same threadbare t-shirt, and Patrick still couldn’t get enough. 

Pete was laughing softly when they broke apart, laughing more kisses into his cheeks before pulling back. 

Patrick swore Pete’s eyes were sparkling. 

“We should probably talk,” Pete said, eyes flicking up to Patrick’s forehead. “And you should really be home, not overdoing it at work.”

“If you take me home, we are having sex,” Patrick said evenly, and Pete choked on a laugh. 

“Okay,” he said agreeably. “Talk after.”

“Okay,” Patrick said, and for once, for fucking once, things seemed right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nothing at all could go wrong now!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We don’t have to do anything,” Pete said, and Patrick reconsidered for about three seconds whether or not Pete’s head injury was serious or not. “It’s okay if you don’t--”
> 
> “Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz,” Patrick said, exasperated. “I get it, you’re a gentleman now. But your boner is drilling a hole in my thigh, and I am like ninety percent sure you’re only asking to be polite, so go get the damn condoms.”

Headache? Stitches? Bob? Patrick didn’t even know what those words meant. It was like a perfect blank spot in his mind that he had no desire to examine more closely. None of it mattered, anyway, because all he could focus on was the slide of Pete’s lips against his and the dig of his fingers along the curve of his back. 

Their clothes marked a path from Pete’s door to his bedroom, with stops to kiss frantically against the couch, the hallway wall, the bedroom door, before they collapsed naked on the bed. Patrick, for his part, was unwilling to let Pete go, one hand grasping his thick hair, the other cupping his cheek. 

Patrick’s lips were sore and swollen by the time Pete gently separated them. His hands were broad, spread across Patrick’s ribs, and Patrick released his hold on Pete to slide his hands down Pete’s chest and take a shuddering breath. 

Pete grinned, shifting a little, hard cock dragging against Patrick’s thigh. Patrick shuddered and Pete’s grin widened even as he pressed kisses down Patrick’s jaw and nipped at his neck lightly, pushing him gently onto his back.

“We don’t have to do anything,” Pete said, and Patrick reconsidered for about three seconds whether or not Pete’s head injury was serious or not. “It’s okay if you don’t--”

“Peter Lewis Kingston Wentz,” Patrick said, exasperated. “I get it, you’re a gentleman now. But your boner is drilling a hole in my thigh, and I am like ninety percent sure you’re only asking to be polite, so go get the damn condoms.”

“Fuck, I love you,” Pete breathed, and Patrick rolled his eyes, cheeks going hot. Pete leaned to the side, rummaging through his nightstand and knocking a handful of stuff out of the drawer in classic unorganized Wentz fashion before he rolled back on top of Patrick ungracefully, clutching a condom and an embarrassingly near-empty bottle of lube. Patrick raised an eyebrow. Pete huffed and pushed Patrick’s legs apart. “I was working on myself. It gets a little lonely.”

“I see that,” Patrick smirked, and gasped, hips hitching as Pete slid a finger in, lube strategically cold to shut Patrick up, probably. Pete worked him open, slowly and steadily, pressing kisses to Patrick’s lips, his cheeks, his jawbone as he did. Patrick curled his fingers around Pete’s wrist, felt his tendons move as he fingered Patrick, and groaned when he pulled out. 

“I missed you,” Pete mumbled, fumbling with the condom, lube-slick fingers making it difficult. Patrick sat up, taking it from Pete and tearing it open, rolling it on and kissing the gasps from Pete’s mouth, messily smearing lube on Pete’s cock before pulling Pete close and straddling his lap. “Fuck. _Patrick._ ”

“I missed you, too,” Patrick said fiercely. “God, you fucking asshole, I missed you _so much_.”

He angled Pete’s cock and sank down, breath catching in his throat at the burn and stretch. His nails were probably digging into Pete’s shoulders, but Pete’s thumbs were digging into his hipbones so fair was fair.

“Fucking--sat up at night--” Pete groaned, leaning forward to mouth at Patrick’s collarbone. He flexed his hips, punching a moan out of Patrick as Pete’s cock dragged against his prostate. “Thinking about you. Wishing I’d--fought harder.”

“I was so mad,” Patrick whispered, tucking his feet under Pete’s thighs and grinding down, winding a hand in Pete’s hair and pulling as he did. “I was--oh _fuck, Pete_ so mad at you, I wouldn’t have listened.”

“Never stopped loving you,” Pete said, cupping Patrick’s neck and kissing him, messy and uncoordinated. Patrick tried to kiss back but all his focus was on his cock and the drag of Pete’s inside him, and how close he was to coming already. He’d be embarrassed, but he didn’t have room for it in his body, not alongside the rapidly expanding swell of love in his chest, chasing out everything else.

“Never,” Patrick managed to agree, and he didn’t know if it was Pete that wrapped a hand around his aching cock or if he managed to do it himself but it didn’t matter because then he was coming, coming with a sharp cry into Pete’s mouth. Pete’s teeth caught Patrick’s bottom lip and Patrick couldn’t tell, not through the condom, but he knew _Pete_ and Pete’s orgasm was never far off from Patrick’s. 

The only sound in the room as they both came down was their harsh panting, and Patrick dropped his head to Pete’s shoulder, trying to catch his breath. Pete swept his hands across Patrick’s back and Patrick pressed a kiss to the curve of Pete’s neck. 

“Does that count as talking?” Pete asked, breaking the silence, and Patrick laughed despite himself, little ugly, choked laughs, smothered into Pete’s warm, sex-damp skin. Pete pressed his own grin to Patrick’s shoulder, teeth sharp points of reminder that made Patrick’s heart flare. 

“I need a shower,” Patrick said instead, and Pete hummed in agreement.

“Maybe we can talk more then,” he suggested, and Patrick pulled back to meet his challenging gaze, flushing a little at the smirk on his face.

“You’re incorrigible,” he said, even as he climbed off Pete’s lap and onto slightly unsteady legs. Pete took his hand and led him to the bathroom, smirking the whole time. 

“I know,” he said, all faux sadness. “You should teach me better.”

The rush of the shower turning on drowned out Patrick’s helpless laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *throws confetti* there! everything's fine forever! right?
> 
> also my dog has bordatella so if anyone has advice i'd love to hear it because listening to her cough is breaking my heart


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are thinking so loud,” Pete grumbled, face mashed somewhere around Patrick’s left elbow. “I’m trying to sleep.”
> 
> “We need to talk,” Patrick said, wincing when his voice seemed way too loud for the darkness currently surrounding them.
> 
> “Oh my God, you’re gonna do this now,” Pete groaned. Patrick felt him move, untangle himself from Patrick, and a moment later Pete’s tragically hipster streetlight-shaped lamp clicked on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> california wildfire count: 1,345,230,457. no i didn’t check any “official sources”; that’s just how it feels to me.
> 
> everyone say happy birthday to my grandpa, who reads everything i write, including fan fiction for some reason, because he loves and supports my writing endeavors.
> 
> everyone give me sympathy for not being able to eat tomorrow for a surgery tuesday because i deserve it.

This was okay.

That was the only thing running through Patrick’s head.

This was fine. 

He had no idea what time it was; Pete was apparently far too pedestrian for something like a clock, so all Patrick could do was lie in Pete’s bed and stare at the dark ceiling and try very hard not to panic as Pete wrapped all his octopus limbs around him.

“You are thinking so loud,” Pete grumbled, face mashed somewhere around Patrick’s left elbow. “I’m trying to sleep.”

“We need to talk,” Patrick said, wincing when his voice seemed way too loud for the darkness currently surrounding them.

“Oh my God, you’re gonna do this now,” Pete groaned. Patrick felt him move, untangle himself from Patrick, and a moment later Pete’s tragically hipster streetlight-shaped lamp clicked on. 

Patrick craned his head to look up at Pete, who was looking down at him with an expression that Patrick was pretty sure was fond. His hair was sleep rumpled, and there was a crease across his cheek that matched the seam of Patrick’s t-shirt. He was up on his knees, staring down at Patrick, and Patrick sighed shakily. 

“Is this the part where you tell me that you still hate me?” Pete said, and he was clearly aiming for a joke but Patrick heard the hurt in his voice. Patrick swallowed. 

“No,” he said. “No. I never hated you, Pete. Not for a second.”

“Then why did you leave me?” Pete sounded wounded. He even sat back a little, like the question had been punched out of him, and Patrick pushed himself up. This felt like a face to face conversation. Patrick took a breath, but Pete powered through. “I was dealing with the worst thing in my entire life and I needed someone and you left, Patrick. You left.”

“Because you scared me half to death!” Patrick managed, voice cracking. He blinked away sudden tears in his eyes and unclenched fists he hadn’t realized were clenched, taking a shaky breath. “Because a building was collapsing and Travie said fall back and you went in anyway and you _didn’t care_ that I was standing there and I would have had to watch you _die_ , Pete.”

“I couldn’t leave two of us behind,” Pete said flatly. “You were okay with that?”

“Had you listened to your Captain you would have known they were _out_ ,” Patrick hissed. 

“Yeah, I know that now,” Pete snapped. “And I know now that Gerard and Mikey went back in after me and I’m the reason they’re dead. Would you like to throw that in my face one more time?”

“No!” Patrick shouted. “Because it wasn’t your fault! Because they ignored Travie, too! It killed me to watch you tear yourself apart with guilt. And you fought the Department so hard for no reason.”

“I didn’t need therapy.”

“Bull fucking _shit_ ,” Patrick spat. “Yes you did. I know you did. And you know you did, because you eventually went.”

“And you know everything.” 

“Pete.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Patrick,” Pete said, sounding tired. “I fucked up. I fucked up a lot. And I don’t know how to apologize for that. I don’t know what’s going to be enough for you.”

“ _You_ are enough for me,” Patrick said, reaching across to grab Pete’s hand. Pete didn’t pull away, so Patrick shuffled closer. “I love you, Pete. I never, ever stopped loving you. I just want you to think before you leap. That’s all I wanted.”

“Oh, that’s all?” Pete joked weakly. Patrick cupped his cheeks in his hands and kissed him softly, letting Pete wind his arms around Patrick’s waist and draw him even closer. “I felt like a piece of me was missing without you.”

“I know a piece of me was missing,” Patrick said, pressing his forehead to Pete’s. “It was the piece you gave me the day we met.”

“That was just your crush on the hot firefighter that saved your life,” Pete preened, and Patrick rolled his eyes.

“Always modest,” he said, and Pete kissed him. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Pete said, and Patrick kissed him again before flinching and accidentally biting his lip as a loud, shrill ringing filled the room. They both pulled apart, looking around with a frown, before their stupid, middle of the night brains turned off and their first responder brains turned on. 

“That’s a fire alarm,” Patrick said, looking at Pete with wide eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m not sorry.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Squinting, he made out the doors to the lobby--the smoke wasn’t thick, it was just a haze, making it a little hard to see but not impossible yet. He didn’t bother looking anywhere else, and didn’t have time too, anyway. Pete grabbed him by the shoulder, turning his body into Pete’s, and led him towards the doors with the sheer, one-minded determination of a firefighter making a save. 
> 
> Pete grabbed the handle.
> 
> The door didn’t move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: working on my thesis is very important, as are my short story assignments
> 
> also me: tee hee here is some fanfiction

Pete was already moving, throwing Patrick’s actual clothes at him. Patrick’s personal record for getting into his uniform was thirty seconds. 

He did it in twenty, boots included, and was following Pete to the front door in less than twenty more. Pete was in uniform, too, although not his turnouts, but at least it would identify them if it was a real fire. Patrick’s phone said it was just after two in the morning, and a fire alarm at this time was never a good thing. 

“Not hot,” Pete said, hands pressed against the door, and Patrick followed him again out into the hallway, which was blessedly devoid of flames. 

“Fifth floor,” Patrick said, stepping to the window. San Francisco smiled back at him, like nothing at all was happening. “No fire escape?”

“Nope,” Pete said. “Just the stairs. I _love_ modern buildings. Three neighbors on my floor. I’ll go left.”

Patrick turned on his heel to the right and banged on the door to Pete’s next door neighbor. 

“San Francisco Fire Department!” he shouted, a half second behind Pete’s own shout. He heard shuffling, then apartment 511 opened the door, revealing a woman in her mid-sixties in a robe and oversized hair curlers, squinting at him.

“Yes?” she asked, as if she could not hear the blaring alarm. Thankfully, Patrick was a veteran and was very used to people selectively not hearing things, so this was hardly the first time he was face to face with someone willfully not hearing a fire alarm or other obvious signs of an emergency. 

“The fire alarm has gone off, ma’am,” he said. “Please head to the stairs and evacuate.”

“It’s the middle of the night,” the woman complained. 

“I’m sorry ma’am,” Patrick said as professionally as he could. “Fires don’t care about time. Is there anyone else in your residence?”

“No,” the woman grumbled, shuffling out and heading Pete’s direction. Patrick watched her go for a moment before ducking inside and quickly looking around to make sure there really was nobody inside.

Aside from plastic-covered furniture and an alarming amount of porcelain dolls, the apartment was empty, so Patrick ducked back out and closed the door, jogging to catch up with Pete once he was done. 

“Got everyone headed downstairs,” Pete said, grabbing Patrick’s hand and squeezing. “Lots of bitching because no one smells smoke so of course that means no fire.”

“Of course,” Patrick said, rolling his eyes. “Did you call 911?”

“We are 911,” Pete said cheekily. 

“ _Pete.”_

“ _Yes_ , I called 911,” Pete said. “Help is on the way. Come on.”

The door to the stairwell banged against the wall, echoing loud. Patrick couldn’t hear anyone--hopefully that meant they all made it to the lobby and were grumbling outside, because Patrick really didn’t want to keep playing first responder off the clock. He took the stairs two at a time, Pete right behind him, until he was opening the exit door to the lobby.

Instantly he took a step back, eyes watering, as the smoke he’d been waiting for smacked him in the face. He fumbled with his uniform shirt, undoing the top few buttons in order to cover his mouth and nose before he inhaled any more smoke. 

Squinting, he made out the doors to the lobby--the smoke wasn’t thick, it was just a haze, making it a little hard to see but not impossible yet. He didn’t bother looking anywhere else, and didn’t have time too, anyway. Pete grabbed him by the shoulder, turning his body into Pete’s, and led him towards the doors with the sheer, one-minded determination of a firefighter making a save. 

Pete grabbed the handle.

The door didn’t move. 

“What the fuck,” Patrick said into Pete’s shoulder. There were two narrow windows on either side of the wooden double doors, paned in frosted glass, and familiar flashing red lights were visible, albeit distorted. Pete tried again, but the door stayed stubbornly in place.

“It’s not hot enough for the frame to swell, is it?” Patrick asked, raising his voice a little over the sound of the alarm. Pete shook his head, glancing around. It was for the emergency exit, Patrick knew, but the glowing red _Exit_ sign was above the door they couldn’t open, and Patrick didn’t see another way out. 

The lobby was tiny, really, just an elevator, the door to the stairs they’d come down, the main entrance they couldn’t get out of, and the property manager’s desk in the corner, with a wastebasket next to it that Patrick could see flames climbing out of. 

“Pete,” he said, with an elbow for good measure. “There.”

Pete swore, looking around again. Patrick watched his gaze fall onto the wall where a sign boldly indicated _fire extinguisher_ , and winced as Pete swore again once he realized the extinguisher was gone. 

“Stay here,” Pete said sharply, not waiting for an answer before racing to the wastebasket. He took a deep breath, flexing his bare hands, before swiftly grabbing and flipping it, hissing and shaking his hand once the wastebasket was upside down. He looked over at Patrick. “It’s plastic. I don’t know if the fire will starve before the plastic melts or not.”

Patrick didn’t need any more instruction, just turned around and pounded on the door as hard as he could, sharp shocks of pain shooting up his arm. He didn’t know if anyone could hear him from the other side of a door he was beginning to think was locked, not stuck, but he had no other choice but to try. 

He stuck his free hand in his pocket, pulling out his phone and clumsily dialing 911, waiting with bated breath to see if the door would open. 

It didn’t. 

“911, where is your emergency?”

“2770 Balboa,” Patrick said quickly. “There’s a fire.”

“Units are on their way.”

“I know, but I’m trapped inside,” Patrick said, before the operator could hang up. “I’m a paramedic, my partner is a firefighter, we were making sure people got out and the lobby door is locked. There’s no other exit.”

He heard the operator relaying what he said and coughed, blinking away tears as the smoke almost seemed to get worse. He cast a worried look at Pete, who didn’t look optimistic as he stared at the wastebasket. 

“What are your names?” the operator asked. “What station are you with?”

“I’m Paramedic Captain Patrick Stump, my partner is Firefighter Pete Wentz, we’re with station 1833.”

“Station 1833 is responding, I’ve alerted them to your location, step away from the door,” the operator said, and Patrick immediately stumbled back, staring at the door with wide eyes and a kind of desperate hope. 

“Pete!” Patrick shouted, voice a little hoarse, just as there was a loud thud, then a crash, as the battering ram knocked in one of the lobby doors. Inaudible shouting was all Patrick could hear from outside before two firefighters in turnout gear pushed their way through the busted-down door.

“We can’t leave you two alone for one goddamn night,” Andy said, grabbing Patrick by the wrist and slapping an oxygen mask onto him. His tone was sarcastic and he was basically manhandling Patrick but the slight tremor in his hands gave away the fear he was hiding, and probably had been hiding since dispatch told them about Patrick’s 911 call. 

Patrick didn’t call him out on it. For his part, he was surprised he was still standing. His knees were ready to give out and he was shaking. 

Spencer was all but yanking Pete outside and Andy followed suit with Patrick. No sooner were they clear than several other firefighters swarmed the lobby, presumably to deal with the actual fire. 

Andy sat Patrick down on the bumper of the ambulance. 

“Deal with this one,” he ordered, and stormed away.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Patrick,” Brendon said, voice cracking. Unlike Andy, he had no qualms about showing how terrified Patrick had made him, shaky hands, wide, wet eyes and all. He slipped a pulse oximeter on Patrick’s finger and needlessly adjusted his oxygen mask before yanking him into a hug that rendered both useless for several long seconds. 

“It wasn’t my fault,” Patrick wheezed, and Brendon sniffed, letting him go and leaning back, pointing at the ambulance. 

“Get in,” he said tearfully. “Sergeant Williams will meet you at the hospital, or so I’m told. You gotta give a statement or something. You’re not allowed to leave until one of us comes to get you.”

“Whatever you say,” Patrick said gently, and allowed Brendon to push him bodily into the back of the ambulance, moving over to leave room for whenever Pete would inevitably be shoved in alongside him. 

The inside of the ambulance provided a little bit of a barrier from the lights and noise of the fire department at work, and Patrick exhaled, the mask fogging up a bit as he did. He reached down, rummaging in the under-seat compartment and pulling out a mini bottle of water before sitting back and closing his eyes for a moment. 

He didn’t want to think about how close that was. He didn’t want to remember the sound of the fire alarm. 

He didn’t want to wonder how and why a fire started in the wastebasket of the lobby, or how the lobby doors got locked from the outside. 

He didn’t want to think about any of that, but he could already tell it was going to be hard to forget. 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all promised you love me


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dispatch, this is 1833 Paramedic Captain. Confirm no fire needed?”
> 
> He only had to wait a second before he got a dispatcher’s answer, voice slightly muffled like she was holding back laughter. 
> 
> “Confirmed, Captain. Only paramedics at this time.”
> 
> Patrick wasn’t any less confused, but he hopped in the back of the ambulance with Nicole and punched the roof, riding it out until they got to their...emergency. 
> 
> Which, as it turned out, was not an emergency. 
> 
> Patrick understood now why the dispatcher was trying not to laugh.

Pete’s hand was rough in his, but Patrick held onto it throughout the ride to the hospital, only letting go with great reluctance when they both got checked over by emergency room doctors. By the time they were declared unharmed, it was well past three in the morning and they were both suddenly aware that neither of them had a place to go. 

Patrick rubbed his eyes, gritty and dry from exhaustion. 

“I really think your only option right now is to stay at the station,” Sergeant Williams said seriously. One look at her told Patrick she was as tired of this crap as he was, and he sure didn’t miss the bulletproof vest she wore over her uniform shirt now. Her hands were on her hips as she surveyed them both, badge catching the glint of the harsh fluorescent lighting of the emergency room lobby every so often. 

“Aren’t you tired of handling my messes?” Patrick asked tiredly. “First I get you shot, now you’re here at three am.”

Williams laughed humorlessly. 

“Pretty sure Bryar shot me, not you,” she said. “And I’d be on shift anyway. I’d be careful of accusing him of setting the fire. We don’t have proof.”

“Sure,” Pete said, deadpan. “But he totally set the fire.”

Williams inclined her head, which was all the acknowledgement Patrick needed. He sighed, slouching down a little, and felt a hand rest on his shoulder. He didn’t know if it was Pete or Williams, but after a moment, Williams spoke. 

“Come on,” she said quietly. “I’ll give you a ride.”

Patrick huffed out a tired laugh and stood, hand finding Pete’s and squeezing before following Williams to her squad car. The three of them were quiet until Pete and Patrick slid in the backseat, laughing a little at being locked in, and Williams was pulling out of the parking lot. 

“Thanks,” Patrick said, speaking up a little to be heard over the heater. “I’m sorry you got shot.”

“I’m all healed,” Williams shrugged, briefly meeting Patrick’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Plus, I got a badass scar. My boyfriend thinks it’s kind of cool. Well, he does now once he got over the fact that I got shot.”

“Fair,” Pete said. Patrick managed a grin and rested his head on Pete’s shoulder. Pete dropped a kiss to the top of Patrick’s head. “Do you have a spare uniform?”

“Got a full set,” Patrick said around a yawn. “I’m on a twenty four starting at noon, so hopefully we’ll have figured something out by then.”

“I’m on a twelve,” Pete said. “I’ll work on it.”

“I love you,” Patrick said quietly. Pete beamed. 

“No kissing in my patrol car,” Williams said loudly, but Patrick clocked her smirk in the rearview mirror. “We’re here. Do me a favor? Try not to have any break ins or fires here?”

“Do our best,” Pete said, throwing a salute, before herding Patrick out of the car. The wind was stronger now, and it bit into Patrick’s cheeks until they ducked into the station, lit by the low lights of third shift.

“And here we go,” Patrick said under his breath as he caught sight of the huddled mix of paramedics and firefighters at the end of the hall. They should all be in _bed_ , trying to grab precious rest before the alarm went off, but no, they were in the lounge, gossiping. 

Brendon spotted him first.

“Patrick!” he gasped, at least remembering to keep his voice down. He dashed over to him, looking lost in a Station 1833 hoodie at least four sizes too big, and threw his arms around Patrick, squeezing him tight. “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

“Next time a fire breaks out in the middle of the night, I’ll advise you beforehand,” Patrick agreed, and Brendon punched him in the shoulder before hugging him again. “As much as I am glad you are happy I am safe, I would like to sleep before my twenty four, so, may I?”

Laughing, Brendon stepped back, letting Patrick and Pete head to the bunk room, although Patrick didn’t know if enough adrenaline had left his system for any actual restful sleep.

\----

“Second shift paramedics, call out,” Patrick said, standing on a bench in order to see over the usual chaos of shift turnover. He did sleep a little, and a shower and fresh uniform did wonders to help him put last night aside, at least for now, so he rolled his shoulders back and redirected his attention to his crew. 

He marked off each name as it was shouted back to him, rolling his eyes and fistbumping Joe back as he ran past. He was glad that, as Captain, he didn’t have to insert himself into what went into a shift turnover, other than verifying he was fully staffed. He left his paramedics uselessly competing for fastest turnover, like they always did, until the line of tired first shift responders were clocking out and the station was quiet again. 

Not for long, though. 

It had barely hit forty five minutes into his shift when the alarm rang out, the speaker crackling to life above them.

_Station 1833 Paramedics, respond to an entrapment at 100 Larkin. Station 1833 Paramedics, respond to an entrapment at 100 Larkin._

“Isn’t that the library?” Joe asked, even as he moved to the rig, hopping in the driver’s seat. Patrick followed him, but paused by the dispatch phone, frowning. 

“Dispatch, this is 1833 Paramedic Captain. Confirm no fire needed?”

He only had to wait a second before he got a dispatcher’s answer, voice slightly muffled like she was holding back laughter. 

“Confirmed, Captain. Only paramedics at this time.”

Patrick wasn’t any less confused, but he hopped in the back of the ambulance with Nicole and punched the roof, riding it out until they got to their...emergency. 

Which, as it turned out, was not an emergency. 

Patrick understood now why the dispatcher was trying not to laugh. 

“Ma’am,” he said firmly. “You need to stay still.”

“You are going to _cut_ my _hair_!” she screeched, at a truly impressive volume, spit flying out of her mouth and splattering Patrick’s face. Patrick was pretty sure he’d heard a bird on an Animal Planet show make that noise once. 

“Yeah,” Nicole said. “Because you got it caught in the microfilm belt.”

“Which you were warned not to lean over and touch while it was in operation,” the librarian helpfully chimed in. The woman turned purple. Patrick shot the librarian a look. Not helpful.

“I have a _right_ ,” she began. “I pay my _taxes_. That means I can use all parts of the library. Because I pay for it. I pay for all of your _jobs!_ ”

_To hell with it,_ Patrick thought, and cut the woman’s hair off at the scalp. Two things happened in rapid succession: first, the woman clearly wasn’t expecting it and jerked her head up, overcorrecting wildly and falling straight onto her ass in front of the group of paramedics and patrons who’d stopped to not-so-subtly watch. Second, she noticed one of said patrons with his phone out and turned her outrage up to eleven.

“You!” she snarled, more spit flying, pushing herself off the floor, pointing at the teenager. Patrick sighed and reached for his radio. “How dare you record me? I did not give you permission to record me!”

“Dispatch, please send patrol to 100 Larkin for a developing physical dispute,” Patrick said into his radio. “Be advised there are paramedics on scene.”

Joe had stepped in front of the teen and the angry woman who was now missing a not-insignificant portion of her hair on her left side and was positively frothing at the mouth, making her look slightly demented. 

“Ma’am,” Joe said, calmly but firmly. “I need you to take a few steps back so my colleagues can assess you for any other injuries. I will take care of this gentleman.”

The woman scowled but began to back away.

Which was, of course, when the teenager decided to make it worse. 

“This is going to be _hilarious_ on TikTok,” he said, and Patrick grabbed his radio again. 

“Can we get a rush on those patrol cars?” he asked desperately, stepping forward himself to try and get the woman to step back. “Ma’am? Ma’am. Please step back. I need you to step back. The police are coming and they need to know you are not a threat.”

“You’re damn right I’m a threat!” the woman bellowed, loud enough to potentially wake Patrick’s grandma up in her nursing home in Chicago. “I don’t know what a TikTok is but I’m about to make this boy regret being born.”

“Okay, Karen,” the kid said, and Patrick watched the apocalyptic rage cross his once-patient’s face with a sinking feeling in his stomach. 

Why? Why did he always get the crazies?

“My name is _Janet_ ,” she shrieked, just as the library doors opened and two patrol officers walked in. 

Patrick threw up his hands, grabbing Joe’s wrist and dragging him away. 

“Scene’s all yours, gentlemen,” he said, smacking the incident report into one of the officer’s chests. “Have fun.”

“Thanks,” Patrick heard one of them call out sarcastically, but he was beyond caring, just helped Nicole throw their kits back together and beat it out of the library and back into the safe, non-crazy confines of the rig.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look, i gave you a chapter without angst! don’t say i never did anything for you.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’re on a twenty four hour shift, you don’t have one of those!” Travie shouted at him, chasing him around the staircase and into the lounge. “Patrick. Stump. _Paramedic Captain._ You’re killing me here.”
> 
> “Do you know what I just had to pull out of a man’s asshole today?” Patrick asked. It was not a rhetorical question. “Do you? Because if you do, do not ask me why I haven’t done inventory.”
> 
> “It’s inventory week!” Travie protested. “Look, Patrick, Captain to Captain--”
> 
> “I already hate the sound of this.”
> 
> “I know you’ve had a hard time lately,” Travie said. 
> 
> “Have I?” Patrick asked. “I hadn’t noticed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter would not be up without glitterandrocketfuel and platinumandpercocet, so go thank them <3

“No,” Patrick said loudly, fully turning around and beginning to walk away when he saw Travie heading toward him. “No, I am officially on lunch break.”

“We’re on a twenty four hour shift, you don’t have one of those!” Travie shouted at him, chasing him around the staircase and into the lounge. “Patrick. Stump. _Paramedic Captain._ You’re killing me here.”

“Do you know what I just had to pull out of a man’s asshole today?” Patrick asked. It was not a rhetorical question. “Do you? Because if you do, do not ask me why I haven’t done inventory.”

“It’s inventory week!” Travie protested. “Look, Patrick, Captain to Captain--”

“I already hate the sound of this.”

“I know you’ve had a hard time lately,” Travie said. 

“Have I?” Patrick asked. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“If you need to take time off--”

“Time off?” Patrick interrupted. “Fantastic idea. Where should I spend time off? My crime scene or my boyfriend’s?”

“Neither of them are technically crime scenes anymore,” Travie said.

“That’s not the argument you think it is,” Patrick replied. “And no, I’m not taking time off so I can sit around wondering when Bob is gonna pop up around the corner and impale me on a fucking goat horn or something.”

“A goat horn?”

_”Whatever,”_ Patrick stressed. “The point is, here is where I need to be. And since you’ve got a stick up your ass about paperwork, I’ll get someone assigned to it before the end of shift.”

“Why a goat horn?”

“If that’s all,” Patrick said meaningfully, trying not to roll his eyes directly in the Fire Captain’s face. “I’ll be going. To do my job. Which is not in here.”

Patrick didn’t stick around to let Travie have the last word--which was likely to be something about goat horns again, anyway--but his purposeful stride down the hall was interrupted when he slammed into Pete, who smelled faintly like charred hot dogs and who’s hair was slightly damp.

“Oh, thank God,” Pete said, and kissed him. Patrick was pretty sure this entire shift was taking place in the twilight zone, starting with the call in the library and ending with Pete kissing him in the middle of the hall while he smelled like a barbeque gone wrong.

“Um,” Patrick said, once Pete pulled away. “Are you okay?”

“I need to have sex with you,” Pete said seriously. “Like, right now.”

“What?” Patrick asked, and Pete grabbed his hand and pulled him into one of the storage closets, which was possibly the _least_ sexy thing imaginable, which is why Patrick was currently getting hard. It was like...a Pavlovian reaction. Or something. Scrodinger’s erection. Why was he thinking about this? “We can’t have _sex_ at _work_.”

“Sure we can,” Pete said, untucking Patrick’s shirt and running his hands up Patrick’s sides, sending goosebumps after his touch. “We used to do it all the time.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure we should be taking cues from what we used to do,” Patrick said, but his words had as much authority behind them as jello because when Pete kissed him again, Patrick kissed him back. “I think we need to check you for a concussion. Or smoke inhalation.”

“I think if I answer one more call where someone tries to have a barbeque indoors because it’s cold outside, I might set myself on fire,” Pete countered. “I also think that I really, really, _really_ need my dick sucked. Please.”

“How can I resist?” Patrick asked, deadpan. Pete thunked his head back against the wall and groaned. 

“I’ll owe you,” he promised, and Patrick rolled his eyes. 

“Yes, you will,” he said, carefully getting onto his knees and hoping the floor was clean enough to not leave marks on his uniform. “I already have a very creative plan in mind.”

“Please just blow me,” Pete whined. Patrick snorted and licked up Pete’s cock, mouthing at the head and relishing in the strangled noise Pete made. Pete smelled musky when Patrick took him in all the way, burying his nose in Pete’s groin. Patrick filed three comments about showers away for later before swallowing and listening to Pete muffle a shout into his fist. 

Seemed like Pete remembered the rule about _no touching Patrick’s hair during a blowjob_ , which Patrick appreciated. He slid his hands up Pete’s shaking thighs, sneaking them under his shirt to trace over his ridiculous tattoo by memory. Pete panted Patrick’s name and Patrick tried not to preen but the hell with it--he preened, swallowing again.

Spit was everywhere--slicking up his face, dripping down his chin onto his neck, and Pete wasn’t helping matters. He was leaking like he hadn’t come in years, which wasn’t true if Patrick’s memory of the past three days was correct. It didn’t particularly matter right now, now with Patrick’s jaw burning in the right kind of way and the heel of his palm pushing against his own erection. 

Pete was close, Patrick knew it. He was gasping, eyes shut, and Patrick would be shocked it he lasted more than thirty more seconds--

The bell rang. 

Patrick choked on Pete’s cock as he started laughing, laughing harder as he pulled off and took in Pete’s wounded expression. He stood, wiping his face on his sleeve while Pete made an unintelligible noise of disbelief and the PA system went off. 

_Station 1833 Paramedics, respond to an allergic reaction at 2345 19th Ave. Station 1833 Paramedics, respond to an allergic reaction at 2345 19th. Ave._

“I’m being punished,” Pete moaned weakly. “This is God punishing me.”

“Duty calls,” Patrick said cheerfully, aiming a smirk at Pete as he left him in the supply closet, still hard and looking wounded. The memory would sustain him through whatever bullshit he dealt with next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't say i never do anything for you


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A paramedic should always wear a seatbelt, Patrick thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *jazz hands* oh boy buckle up. things may or may not be happening quickly now. see if you can spot the setup. [eyes emoji]
> 
> also early posting because we CELEBRATING TODAY BABY!!!! today is a gotdamn national holiday. no i will not keep politics out of my work. that mangled apricot hellbeast has been voted out, and that fact has saved the lives of so many fucking people, including mine. *sets off fireworks* WOOOOO!

“Did you really leave Pete mid blowjob in the supply closet?” Brendon asked, after their third call back-to-back. He’d been texting nonstop in between the fine art of saving people’s lives (or a mild rash, broken arm, and a kid who stuck a Cheerio up his nose, respectively) and Patrick was willing to bet he knew who Brendon was texting. 

“I didn’t think blue balls was something Pete would brag about,” Patrick said, raising an eyebrow as he wiped the stretcher down, preparing it for use again. The ambulance was driving back to the station. They weren’t on call, but Patrick wouldn’t have known it back here. And Joe said _he_ sucked at driving. 

“More like bitching about,” Brendon said, lips curling in a smirk. “Ad nauseum.”

“Look at you, practicing your SAT words,” Patrick said. Brendon rolled his eyes. “Go on, dazzle me with more.”

“Was that a yes or no?” Brendon asked.

“Are you practicing safe sex with Spencer, or do I need to have a talk with you?” Patrick countered. “Oh that’s right--it’s none of my business. Use context clues to infer of that what you will.”

“I thought you getting laid would make you _less_ of a bitch,” Brendon muttered. 

“The entirety of this station is too invested in my love life,” Patrick said. 

“Hard not to be when your love life has a body count.”

“God, I hate you.”

Brendon didn’t get time to reply to that, didn’t even get time to open his mouth. Patrick heard the squeal of the ambulance’s brakes, the squeal that said _oh fuck, there’s no way I’m stopping in time_ before it felt like he went weightless.

He got a split second where he thought _a paramedic should always wear a seatbelt_ and then he slammed into Brendon’s stupidly bony body, hitting his shoulder hard on the side of the equipment case, bringing tears to his eyes even as he landed against the wall and fully on top of Brendon. Brendon screamed, head slamming back against the metal wall, hand going to his side, curling around his ribs. 

“Brendon,” Patrick gasped, trying to shift off him, but that just seemed to hurt Brendon more, because he cried out again and choked. Patrick froze--he definitely didn’t want Brendon to vomit, not when Patrick couldn’t get him onto his side.

Patrick still didn’t know what the hell happened, but the movement had stopped, the bus skidded to a halt with both paramedics on top of each other. Patrick tasted blood in his mouth and coughed a little, grimacing, before reaching up and patting Brendon down as best he could. 

“Bren,” he managed. “Bren, are you okay?”

Brendon groaned, hissing in pain when he tried to move. Patrick squeezed his shoulder, shook his head. 

“Don’t,” he told him, then frowned and tried to listen for Joe. It was hard--his ears were ringing and his vision blurry, so he fumbled for his own radio, praying it wasn’t damaged. 

“Dispatch,” he said, voice hoarse, breathing hard “This is--Ambulance 7 for Station 1833. Send-- additional units to our location. Apparent collision. Multiple paramedic injuries.”

“Copy Ambulance 7,” Patrick was pretty sure Dispatch responded. He was focusing on trying not to pass out and to keep Brendon braced and still as best he could, as uncomfortable and painful as it was to them both. Car accidents in general were bad; car accidents in which they were slammed against metal walls were worse. 

He heard sirens outside the ambulance and tried to breathe and reassure himself, but it wasn’t doing much good, and Brendon was all but whimpering in pain. He still couldn’t hear Joe, but he could hear noise from the cab, so he hoped the backup ambulances were there now because holy shit, he was tired. 

Someone pounded on the doors to the ambulance, the sound ricocheting in Patrick’s head. Patrick groaned. 

“San Francisco Fire Department, call out!” Patrick recognized that voice, he was sure of it, if he could just focus, he could--

“Breach!”

It felt like Patrick blinked and the doors were forced open. Patrick groaned a little, squinting against the sudden light until a figure blocked it. 

“We’ve got two down!” the figure shouted, and then knelt close to Patrick. “No, don’t move, either of you. Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Patrick managed, once his eyes made sense of the figure. “I think Brendon has some broken ribs.”

“Paramedics are coming,” Spencer said, brushing Brendon’s hair back. “Do you know what happened?”

“All of a sudden,” Patrick said, forcing words out through a fog and the exhaustion. “Just flew through the air. Think we hit something?”

“Looks like someone hit you,” Spencer said. “Joe is okay, just airbag burns. Had to be cut out of the cab. For Christ’s sake.” He reached for his radio. “Wentz, come on! Could you bring some paramedics please?”

“I’m here, alright?” Pete muttered. Patrick squinted at him and _saw_ the moment he realized who was riding in the back and promptly lost his cool. “ _Patrick_.” 

“I’m okay,” Patrick managed. “We’re banged up but I think we’re okay.”

Pete fished a penlight out of his pocket and checked Patrick’s pupils, then Brendon’s. He paused, then checked Brendon’s again. 

“Is he okay?” Spencer asked immediately, a line of tension in his shoulders. 

“I think he has a concussion,” Pete said. He twisted around to look behind himself, then reached for his radio. “Can I get an ETA on the paramedics? We’ve got serious injuries back here.”

“Here!” 

Patrick recognized Sarah, but not the other two. He really didn’t care. He followed their directions, let them cart him out, just hoped Brendon wound up okay.

\----

Patrick earned himself a broken collarbone and a sling for the next eternity, but he wasn’t worried about himself. After sending Pete to make sure that Joe really was fine--save for the minor burns--he found his way to Brendon’s ER room to hover and generally be a nuisance. 

“Hey,” he said as Brendon blinked up at him, frowning. Spencer was sprawled in the chair next to him, asleep. Well, it was pushing three in the morning by now. “What’s the verdict?”

“Concussion,” Brendon mumbled. “Two broken ribs. Smashed up my pretty face.”

“Was your face ever pretty?” Patrick asked, and Brendon huffed a laugh before groaning in pain, reaching for his ribs. 

“Ow,” he whined. “Don’t make me laugh, you asshole.”

“Sorry,” Patrick whispered, then pressed a kiss to the kid’s head. “Prognosis?”

“Off for a few weeks,” Brendon said, then fluttered his lashes. “Spencer’s gonna use his leave.”

“Aren’t you lucky,” Patrick grinned. Brendon’s eyes flickered down to his sling and he frowned. “I’m okay. Broken collarbone.”

“Oof,” he said. “Did anyone figure anything out?”

“It was a hit and run,” Patrick said. “That was the last I heard.”

“Jesus,” Brendon muttered. “Had to be us, didn’t it.”

“You know it,” Patrick said. “You gonna be free soon?”

“They said tomorrow,” Brendon said. “You and Pete still staying at the station?”

“I think so,” Patrick replied. “I sleep better with the alarms going off than with Bob out.”

“Don’t blame you,” Brendon said, flashing him a tired but genuine smile. “Try and get some sleep? This wasn’t your fault, you know. Even Paramedic Captains aren’t psychic.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Patrick said. “Listen to what the doctors say.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Brendon shot back, smirking, and Patrick rolled his eyes. A knock at the door distracted him and he glanced over to see Sergeant Williams. Her arms were crossed, expression serious, and Patrick couldn’t help the automatic bad feeling he got whenever she sought him out.

“Bad news,” he guessed, voice flat. She grimaced. “How bad?”

“We need to talk,” she said, and Patrick and Brendon exchanged a look that roughly translated to _oh, cool, this should be fun._


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Someone hit the ambulance on purpose,” Patrick finished. “Who does that? Ambulance versus car isn’t a winning combination.”
> 
> “It was a truck,” Williams said. “A 4x4. Witnesses and dashcam show the driver running. Seems pretty sober to me.”
> 
> Williams held out her phone to Patrick, who took it with mounting nausea. 
> 
> “I’m not going to like the dashcam, am I?” he guessed, and didn’t wait for her reply to hit _play_.

“I feel like I need a lawyer,” Patrick said, and Williams shook her head. “Just lay it on me. The day-- _night_ \--can’t get worse.”

“There were no skid marks on the road,” Williams said. “Which means that either the driver that hit you was extremely intoxicated or--”

“Someone hit the ambulance on purpose,” Patrick finished. “Who does that? Ambulance versus car isn’t a winning combination.”

“It was a truck,” Williams said. “A 4x4. Witnesses and dashcam show the driver running. Seems pretty sober to me.”

Williams held out her phone to Patrick, who took it with mounting nausea. 

“I’m not going to like the dashcam, am I?” he guessed, and didn’t wait for her reply to hit _play_. 

The footage came from a car directly behind them. It was surreal to see. Patrick knew exactly what was happening behind those closed doors, knew the teasing between he and Brendon, knew that Joe was driving them back to the station for a break. 

It happened even faster on the dashcam than it felt in real life. They went through the light, and in the blink of an eye, the truck Williams had been talking about blew through the red, colliding with the ambulance with enough force to make Patrick’s head hurt again. The driver with the dashcam slammed on their brakes, and Patrick watched as his ambulance skidded to a halt, the cab doors crushed, knowing he and Brendon were inside the back. 

The door to the truck that hit them swung open just as people started to leave their cars to stare at the accident, some with phones out to video, some with phones pressed to their ears like they were _actually_ calling for help. A couple people walked towards the driver, clearly intending to check on them, but he staggered out, shoved past them, and ran--but not before the camera and Patrick got a good look at his face. 

“Yeah,” Patrick said, handing Williams her phone back. “I don’t like it.”

“He wasn’t in any way physically abusive to you before your breakup?’ Williams asked, and Patrick shook his head. “Do you have any idea what could have incited this behavior? Escalating to repeated attempted murder has to have some sort of motive behind it we just aren’t seeing.”

Patrick shrugged helplessly. 

“I don’t know,” he said. “We were only together for about three months. It’s not like I know his deepest darkest secrets and I can’t stay alive.”

“Did he talk to you about anything that seemed off?” Williams asked. “Even the smallest thing might help. He’s not crazy. He’s determined. There’s a difference.”

“Thanks,” Patrick said. “I feel a lot better.”

“He’s targeting you,” Williams stressed. “And to a degree, Pete. Which means he thinks you are a problem that needs solving. We have to figure out why.”

“Talking wasn’t really a huge thing with us,” Patrick said. “We mostly had sex, to be frank. He didn’t care about what I did at work, and he hated that I worked with Pete, so I rarely talked about that, and anytime he talked about his job he got mad that I had a comment--”

“A comment?” Williams interrupted, frowning. 

“Yeah,” Patrick said slowly. “A comment. Because he’d brag about shit that didn’t need to be bragged about. Arresting a couple kids for smoking a joint. Getting rough with a homeless guy for ‘resisting arrest’. Him and his partner were the epitome of bad cops and he didn’t like that I pointed it out.”

“He’d tell you about this?” Williams asked, and her voice sounded urgent. She pulled out a notepad and pen and Patrick didn’t know where this was going but it suddenly felt serious.

“All the time,” Patrick said. “At the beginning, I think he thought I’d think it was funny. After a while, he reminded me I was his boyfriend so I had to support him. And always told me to shut up so he could finish his story.”

“I know it’s three in the morning,” Williams said. “But can you tell me as many of these stories as you can? And dates?”

“I can try,” Patrick said. “Do you think--”

“I’m not jinxing it,” Williams said firmly. “I’m not thinking anything at all. Let’s just go over them.”

“Okay,” Patrick said, but something in his gut said otherwise. 

\----

“Sergeant Williams thinks there’s something there?” Pete asked, hovering obnoxiously as Patrick carefully settles into the corner two bunks they’ve been using because they’ve been scared out of their homes. Patrick groaned and sighed. 

“She’s actually pretty steadfastly refusing to say anything,” Patrick replied, rolling his eyes but allowing Pete to fussily lay a blanket over him. “But I know a lead when I see it. I think.”

“So what did they all have in common?” Pete asked. He was back in his uniform--Patrick was not pleased that he had to run back out on duty after staying up all night with him, but Pete silenced him with a kiss and Patrick only had one arm and was thus useless at being threatening. Patrick heaved a sigh. 

“Most of the shit he told me about happened off his beat,” Patrick said. “Maybe he’s dirty.”

“Color me surprised,” Pete said, deadpan. “Anywhere in particular?”

“Yeah, actually,” Patrick said, frowning. “Usually up near Golden Gate Park.”

“You’re shitting me,” Pete said, which was somehow not on the list of replies Patrick expected. 

“No?” Patrick said. Pete stared at him. Patrick resisted the urge to squirm. 

“For three months he’s been telling you he’s been making arrests off his beat in Golden Gate Park,” Pete repeated. “And you never caught on. But he’s too stupid to realize you didn’t catch on, so now he thinks you know his secret.”

“His secret being?” Patrick asked. He felt a little out of the loop--also, how did _Pete_ know all this? 

Pete leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze intent. Patrick tried to match his intensity, but it was hard when he felt like the one kid in class who didn’t read the book but was pretending really hard that he had. 

“Bob Bryar really was a dirty cop,” Pete said, and there was almost-- _almost_ \--a note of excitement in his voice, but Patrick didn’t press. “I only know this from my days as a shitty ass firefighter, but Golden Gate Park, and the area surrounding it--it’s kind of generally known that cops there can be bought off.”

“So, what, Bob was taking bribes?” Patrick asked, frowning. Pete shrugged one shoulder. 

“That part, I don’t know,” he said. “Bribes, or maybe something bigger. He didn’t get caught because it wasn’t his beat and he never logged his trips. But he told you about them.”

“Holy shit,” Patrick said, and Pete’s eyes were wide enough that Patrick could read the responding _holy shit_ clear as day. “He thinks I knew everything you just told me.”

“It’s the best I can assume,” Pete said. He leaned forward. “But fuck, that explanation won’t help him if I lay eyes on him, let me tell you. Patrick, I’m so scared he’ll hurt you again.”

“Pete,” Patrick whispered. 

“Promise me,” Pete said, voice cracking. “Patrick, _promise me_ you won’t go anywhere alone, not until they arrest him. I don’t think I could take it if he took another shot at you.”

“I promise,” Patrick whispered, and kissed Pete back, sealing what felt like a vow. Pete pressed his forehead to Patrick’s for a long moment and groaned when the alarm went off. “Go. Go save the world.”

“Don’t wait up,” Pete said, and Patrick shook his head fondly, watching Pete head for the door to the dorms, hoping it was an easy call awaiting him out there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this_is_fine.png


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing Patrick did for the rest of his life would ever turn off his instinct to immediately wake up at the sound of alarms. It was ingrained in him. Not just smoke alarms or fire alarms, those were a given, but the overhead alarm, too. The entire time he and Pete had been staying in the firehouse, Patrick had snapped awake at every call, even when he wasn’t on duty. 
> 
> It wasn’t the call out alarm that woke him after Pete left to answer a call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember that you love me.

Nothing Patrick did for the rest of his life would ever turn off his instinct to immediately wake up at the sound of alarms. It was ingrained in him. Not just smoke alarms or fire alarms, those were a given, but the overhead alarm, too. The entire time he and Pete had been staying in the firehouse, Patrick had snapped awake at every call, even when he wasn’t on duty. 

It wasn’t the call out alarm that woke him after Pete left to answer a call. 

It was the fire alarm, distinctly different, and when Patrick took a deep breath, he caught the acrid edge of smoke and he reacted before he could even think about it. He pushed himself out of his bunk, ignoring the pain from his collarbone and bruises, flipping on the light to make sure anyone else in the bunks woke up, too. 

Turned out, he was alone. That wasn’t unnerving at all. 

He shoved his feet haphazardly into his work boots, sans socks, and made his way to the door, the fire alarm continuing to blare and the smell of smoke only getting stronger. A quick press of the back of his hand told him there was no fire immediately on the other side of the door, so he reached for the handle and pulled. 

Nothing. 

It was an eerie feeling of deja-vu, taking Patrick back to the lobby of Pete’s apartment building with an unpleasant jerk. He rattled the handle again--nope. It was locked. Patrick wasn’t naive enough to think the door was just stuck, not after everything that had happened. The door to the bunkroom had been locked and somewhere in the firehouse, something was on fire. 

This situation wasn’t quite ideal. 

Patrick raced back to his bunk as quickly as he could, snatching up his phone and scrolling to Pete’s contact, dialing and holding his breath as it rang, the sound seeming to stretch eternities until Pete answered.

“Hey,” he said, sounding concerned. “We’re on the way back. A fucking dumpster fire in Hunter’s Point. Can you believe it?”

Oh, Patrick could believe it. A convenient dumpster fire on the edge of their beat during a skeleton crew? Who would’ve guessed. 

“The station is on fire,” Patrick said. “And I’m locked in the bunks.”

“Mother fucker,” Pete said immediately, and Patrick heard the sirens go on, then muffled voices until Pete spoke again, apparently talking to the other firefighters. “There’s a fire at the station, the dorms are blocked.”

More muffled voices, with a more urgent tone, and Patrick tried to breathe, but despite the fact that smoke had not yet crept into the room, just the smell of it was enough to send Patrick’s heart racing. There was absolutely no logical reason for a fire to start in a _firehouse_ or for the door to the bunks to lock, which meant Bob must’ve been in the station undetected while Patrick slept--because how else did this happen?

“Patrick,” Pete said. “Keep talking to me.”

“No smoke in here,” Patrick reported. His hands were shaking, but he kept that to himself. “So I think the fire is on the first floor. Nobody else is in here, just me.”

“Is the door locked or is there something pushed in front of it?”

“Locked,” Patrick said. “But that doesn’t mean there isn’t also something in front of it. I don’t know.”

The emergency dispatch radio in the corner, which only went off when nobody downstairs answered the main radio--which was never supposed to happen, that’s why they always had a man behind, but that was _irrelevant_ \--crackled to life, nearly sending Patrick into a heart attack. 

_Station House 1833, please respond._

“Emergency radio is sounding,” he told Pete.

“Call for backup,” Pete said, like Patrick wasn’t a first responder. Instead of arguing, Patrick just set his phone down and picked up the radio with shaky hands, trying to keep calm. 

It really was different when his own life was on the line. 

“Dispatch, this is 1833,” he said. “We have a fire of unknown origin and a crew member stuck inside. Please send additional fire units to our location.”

There was only a half second of static before he got his response. 

_Copy 1833. All units be advised, we have a 10-70 at Station 1833, 1290 17th Ave. Repeat, we have a 10-70 at Station 1833, 1290 17th Ave. One crew member is trapped. Divert non-engaged units to assist._

Patrick let the radio fall, picking his phone back up and pressing it to his ear. His heart was pounding painfully and his ragged breath sounded deafening in his ears.

“Pete?” he asked. 

“Right here,” Pete said tensely. “Got the all-call over the radio. We’re ten out, there are units closer. How’s the smoke?”

Patrick blinked, glancing at the lamp. He could see the start of a haze and his heart skipped a beat.

“Getting hazy,” he said. 

“Fuck,” Pete said. Patrick knew they were thinking the same thing--how do they buy time? No windows in the bunk of a firehouse, not with whole shifts sleeping in the day, but Patrick couldn’t suffocate waiting for help. “The sheets. Stuff the crack under the door.”

“Got it,” Patrick said. He felt kind of numb, like he was being controlled on strings like a puppet, limbs jerking. He yanked the sheets off the bed and did as Pete said, shoving them at the bottom of the door, backing up to look at it warily and with an edge of hysteria. 

Was this _really_ happening?

Did Bob really let something slip to Patrick that would ruin Bob so badly it was worth _killing Patrick_ over it? Patrick didn’t even know what Bob had said!

“Done,” Patrick said into the phone. “I think an engine is here.”

“Engine 12,” Pete said. “It’s going to be okay.”

Patrick opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the emergency dispatch radio again.

_1833, Engine 12 is on scene and reports extensive lower floor fire. Please relay your location._

“Dispatch, advise that I am trapped in the bunkroom,” Patrick managed to say, even though his mind was stuck on _extensive lower floor fire_ , over and over and over again. It seemed like forever and like no time at all before dispatch replied.

_1833, Engine 12 is doing their best to attempt a rescue, additional units may be needed. Stay by the radio._

“Copy,” Patrick said, and tried not to think about how _extensive_ the fire must be for a rescue to be that difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> REMEMBER THAT YOU LOVE ME.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Patrick?” Pete said, loud and clear, and it was all Patrick could do to not scream in fury and fear.
> 
> “Are you insane?” he asked instead, voice cracking. “Are you insane, there’s a _fire!_ ”
> 
> “And I walk through them every day,” Pete said. “It’s kind of my job.”
> 
> “ _Pete._ ”
> 
> “Like hell if I’m going to rely on a maybe for you, Patrick,” Pete said firmly. “Like hell am I gonna stand outside this building while they judge if you’re worth it to save.”

Sirens split the night and the smoke was getting thicker in the bunkroom. Patrick didn’t know if he was imagining things or not, but it even felt warmer in here. He wasn’t a firefighter, he didn’t even know where to start with how the hell they planned on rescuing him.

He tried not to think about how he might not be rescued. He might have run out of get-out-of-jail-free cards. 

“Patrick?” Pete asked. Patrick thought this might be a record for a phone call between them. Fifty one minutes, thirty three seconds. Thirty four. Thirty five. 

“Yeah,” Patrick said. “Still here.”

“Breathing?”

“Yeah,” Patrick repeated. “More smoke but not impossible.”

“Good.” Pete’s voice was in business mode, in the tone Patrick used to call _I am a firefighter, hear me roar_. “We just rolled up. I’m putting the phone in my pocket but don’t hang up, okay?”

“Kay,” Patrick said. He heard rustling for a long ten seconds, then voices. Muffled and distorted, but if Patrick stopped thinking about how he was _trapped in a literal fire_ he sort of mostly made out what they were saying.

“--source, but...and kitchen are fully engulfed.” Patrick assumed Pete and the rest of the team were being briefed. “There must be an accelerant, it’s burning too hot and…..ing too….otherwise.”

“....interior stairs?”

More rustling, until Pete stopped moving. 

“...authorize that, of course.”

“I didn’t ask if you could.” Patrick thought that was Travie’s voice, but Travie wasn’t on shift, so he would have had to come to the station from home, which--wow. “...Captain in there, a human life. All rescue...possible will be attempted.”

“Your house, McCoy.”

“Gear up.”

So much rustling followed that command that Patrick winced and had to pull the phone away, putting it on speaker instead and resisting the urge to pace. It would only use up valuable oxygen and work him up. Stay sitting, stay calm. 

“Pete,” Travie’s voice was clearer, though still far away. “You know what happens if this doesn’t go perfectly, right?”

“Yes,” Pete said. “So it needs to go perfectly.”

“It’s not the only option.”

“But it is the best one,” Pete said. By Travie’s silence, Patrick assumed Pete was right. “And the more you try and talk me down, the less access I have to those stairs. I know, Travie. I know the stairs could be unstable already. But we don’t have time to force a side entry or roof entry.”

“What if you can’t make it to the window?”

“We’ll make it to the window,” Pete said firmly. “Because I’m not going in for a civilian, I’m going in for Patrick, a first responder. I have a radio. Follow protocol.”

“Shouldn’t I be telling you that?” Travie asked weakly.

“No,” Pete said. “I know what I’m looking for this time.”

“Be careful,” Travie said, and it hit Patrick all at once. 

“ _Pete!”_ he shouted into the phone, panic shooting straight into his heart. “Pete, answer me!”

“Patrick?” Pete said, loud and clear, and it was all Patrick could do to not scream in fury and fear.

“Are you insane?” he asked instead, voice cracking. “Are you insane, there’s a _fire!_ ”

“And I walk through them every day,” Pete said. “It’s kind of my job.”

“ _Pete._ ”

“Like hell if I’m going to rely on a maybe for you, Patrick,” Pete said firmly. “Like hell am I gonna stand outside this building while they judge if you’re worth it to save.”

“That’s not what they’re saying.”

“That’s what it feels like,” Pete said. “And don’t even pretend like you wouldn’t do the exact same thing. Now I’m coming for you. Be ready to go.”

“I love you,” Patrick said.

“Shut up,” Pete replied, and hung up the phone. Patrick closed his eyes, pressing his phone to his chest for a long moment, sending a short prayer up to whoever the fuck was listening to keep Pete safe. He tried and failed to not picture Pete in his turnout gear, climbing stairs made of fucking fire that may or may not collapse underneath him at any moment, climbing them for _him_ , because _he_ decided to date a fucking maniac cop that had no regard for his life or anyone else’s. 

If Pete didn’t make it out of here safely, Patrick was gonna haunt Bob for the rest of his rotten, miserable life and that was a _promise_.

The door to the bunks crashed open like an elephant had barreled through it. Patrick tensed out of instinct before his brain registered _firefighter_ framed by a kind of alarming amount of smoke and ash, and he realized Pete must have kicked it in. But Pete was right on the phone--Patrick was a first responder. He didn’t hang around staring, he moved, moved with purpose, to meet Pete at the door. 

“Patrick,” Pete said, just audible through his mask. “Put this on, let’s go.”

Patrick slid on the mask Pete gave him and grabbed a handful of the back of Pete’s turnout coat, sticking to Pete’s back, copying his moves. The second he stepped out of the bunkroom, on Pete’s heels, a wave of heat and smoke hit him hard, making him flinch and grip Pete’s coat tighter. 

Pete reached around to grab Patrick’s wrist with his gloved hand, like he was afraid Patrick would let go, would vanish into the smoke and flames. The rough texture of the turnout gear kept Patrick grounded, kept him from looking to his left and over the railing, into the flames. Kept him from panicking over the fact that the building was burning around them, that this was the closest he’d come to actually dying since he broke up with Bob. 

He rooted himself to Pete and prayed wildly to whatever deity was out there listening that they both made it out of here okay.

“Here!”

Pete’s voice was still hardly audible, but he’d stopped moving, and so Patrick stopped, too. The smoke and ash were stinging Patrick’s eyes, making them tear up, and Pete was still gripping his wrist, talking into his radio. Patrick couldn’t hear what he was saying, but a moment later the glass was breaking in, another firefighter on the very top of a ladder handling an axe with precision. 

Pete was dragging Patrick forward as soon as the glass was gone. Up at the window, Patrick could see that the other firefighter was Andy, and he wasn’t wasting time, either. Patrick wasn’t a firefighter, but he’d seen enough and learned enough to know what they needed from him. This wasn’t a civilian rescue. He could handle more than that.

He took Andy’s hand, gripped wrist to wrist, planting one foot on the window frame and feeling Pete boost him up with hands at his waist. In one motion, Patrick stepped from the window to the ladder, from Pete’s iron grip to Andy’s, collarbone screaming in pain but unimportant right now, and he felt Andy clip a harness onto him before the ladder started retracting. Patrick twisted to look at Pete, eyes wide. 

“I’m coming,” Pete promised. “I’m right behind you.”

Patrick heard breaking glass from inside the firehouse and the groan of a building ready to give up and held Pete’s gaze as long as he could. Another ladder was already on its way up, but Patrick’s heart was pounding. 

“He’s coming,” Andy said, and Patrick tried really hard to believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see you really lucked out when i decided to post two chapters at once so....


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This witness is here to describe the lengths the defendant went to to cover up his actions,” the prosecutor argued, but Patrick was stuck looking at Bob. 
> 
> He kind of felt a spark of pity for him. 
> 
> He hadn’t seen him since he pled guilty to the stalking, kidnapping, arson, and attempted murder--among other things--but in just a few months Bob looked even worse. 
> 
> The official report from SFFD determined that the cause of the fire in the station was arson, and that Bob had tried to set it by wedging molotov cocktails in the gas tanks of the ambulances parked in the station. He failed--he wound up dropping them both, igniting the floor and himself in the process instead, which very much saved Patrick’s life. If both of those full gas tanks had gone off, Patrick would have most certainly have died that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> does court work like this? does it look like i care?

“Please state your name and occupation for the record.”

“Patrick Stump, Paramedic Captain of Firehouse 1833.”

“And what was your relationship with the defendant?”

Patrick wanted to squirm. He was in his dress blues, because good impressions or something, acutely aware of the very full courtroom. He wasn’t surprised he was called to testify, nor was he surprised Bob tried to fight it out, but that didn’t make it any more fun to sit here and talk about it all. 

Six months and Patrick still hasn’t been able to throw Bob in the trash. 

“I was his boyfriend,” Patrick said. He hadn’t looked at the defense table yet. He didn’t really want to see Bob more than he strictly had to. “I dated him for three months before breaking it off with him.”

“You broke it off with him shortly before he began stalking you, correct?” the prosecutor--Christ, Patrick couldn’t remember his name--asked. 

“Yes,” Patrick said. He felt supremely uncomfortable. “Same day, actually.”

“Could you elaborate?”

“I broke up with him in a hospital room,” Patrick said, throat dry. “Where I had been taken for a work injury. He proceeded to kidnap me from the hospital room.”

“What other things did he do?” the prosecutor asked. 

“Objection.” Patrick couldn’t help but glance over at the defense table for that. “This trial is specifically about his alleged involvement in drug trafficking as a member of the San Francisco Police Department.”

“This witness is here to describe the lengths the defendant went to to cover up his actions,” the prosecutor argued, but Patrick was stuck looking at Bob. 

He kind of felt a spark of pity for him. 

He hadn’t seen him since he pled guilty to the stalking, kidnapping, arson, and attempted murder--among other things--but in just a few months Bob looked even worse. 

The official report from SFFD determined that the cause of the fire in the station was arson, and that Bob had tried to set it by wedging molotov cocktails in the gas tanks of the ambulances parked in the station. He failed--he wound up dropping them both, igniting the floor and himself in the process instead, which very much saved Patrick’s life. If both of those full gas tanks had gone off, Patrick would have most certainly have died that night. 

Instead of killing Patrick, Bob wound up with third degree burns on his face, arms, and chest, and one arm was so badly burned it was unsalvageable and had to be amputated. One of his ears was also gone, and he couldn’t currently grow hair. From what Patrick heard, he had a hard time seeing, his vision damaged by the bright blast of the fire igniting right in front of him, but Patrick didn’t know if that was true or not. 

Pete said it was a good start but karma had a ways to go.

Patrick just wanted this whole thing to be over. 

“Witness may answer,” the judge said, and Patrick blinked himself back to the present, looking back at the prosecutor. 

“He destroyed my apartment, he shot a police officer when I called for help after he violated my restraining order against him, he kidnapped me again, he slammed a reinforced 4x4 into the ambulance I was in and nearly killed me and my partner, and he locked me in the bunkroom of the station while I was sleeping and then set fire to it.”

“Did you at any point wonder why he was doing it?” the prosecutor asked, like Patrick was a fucking moron or something. 

“Yes,” Patrick said, instead of _do you think I’m a fucking moron or something_. “I wondered for a while. After the ambulance incident I was interviewed again about my relationship with him, and I mentioned that he didn’t like my comments about his job. I was asked to give examples, then asked for a full and extensive account of every one of those conversations.”

“Did you find out why?

“Yes,” Patrick said. “I was told that he was taking bribes and running drugs while on the clock working for the police department. He often went off his beat to engage in criminal activities. He told me stories about things he saw or did, with the illegal stuff taken out or modified, and once we broke up he assumed I connected the dots and I was going to turn him in.”

“Did you?” the prosecutor asked. “Connect the dots, I mean?”

“I hadn’t connected the dots at all,” Patrick said honestly, looking over at Bob, who was staring straight ahead, back rigid. “I was so exhausted from dating him that if he’d left me alone after we broke up, I wouldn’t have remembered the contents of our conversations a week later. I had no idea what he was telling me.” 

Patrick hoped that stuck in Bob’s mind for the rest of his miserable little life. 

“I’m sorry in advance for this question, Captain,” the prosecutor said. “But could you tell the jury what it was like to go through what the defendant put you through? What were the effects of being scared for your life for weeks on end, because he was trying to cover his tracks?”

Patrick took a deep breath.

~~~

“So don’t be mad,” Brendon said, which wasn’t a great way to start a sentence. 

“Think carefully before you continue speaking,” Patrick replied, voice as threatening as he could make it. Brendon scoffed, which was a problem because it meant he was immune to Patrick and thus needed a new approach. He made a mental note about it and narrowed his eyes.

“I redecorated the rig,” Brendon finished, and Patrick raised an eyebrow. “It’s very _tasteful_ , I promise.”

“Somehow, deep down, I know you’re a goddamn liar,” Patrick told him, following him out of their bright and shiny brand-new locker room onto the main floor of the rebuilt firehouse. They moved in from their temporary location two weeks ago, and Patrick was still kind of getting used to it, even with Bob behind bars. 

It was one story this time. 

That was the one thing everyone wanted. 

One story and windows in the bunks. They invested in blackout curtains, instead. 

“Captain!” the new paramedic said once she laid eyes on him, standing up straight, eyes wide. “Uh, it’s an honor to be on shift with you.”

“Hello,” Patrick said gently. “Nicole, right?”

Nicole nodded vigorously. 

“Were you assigned someone to shadow?”

“Yes, sir,” Nicole said. “Um, Sarah? Sarah O...Or…”

“Just Sarah,” Patrick cut her off before she could strangle herself on Sarah’s last name. “She’s good. If she gives you a hard time, let me know. You’ll do great.”

“Thank you, sir!”

“Just Patrick is fine,” Patrick said, and Nicole nodded again. Patrick glanced to his left and caught Sarah’s eye, tilting his head to summon her over. “This is Sarah. Sarah, this is Nicole, she’s shadowing you.”

“Lovely to meet you,” Sarah said, grinning, tone smokey and eyes sparkling. Patrick rolled his eyes and sent an elbow into her ribs. “You’re _no fun_ Patrick.”

“I’ll let Linda know how fun I am,” Patrick said, and Sarah sent him a pout before dropping an arm around Nicole’s shoulders and leading her away, gesturing around the station as they went. Patrick watched for a moment before shaking his head and turning back to Brendon. “She’s a menace.”

“She’s my _hero_ ,” Brendon sighed. 

“I’m keeping you two separate,” Patrick said. “You do not need lessons from her.”

“I’ll learn anyway.”

“You’re such a little--”

“Ta _da_!”

Patrick stopped dead as Brendon swung the rig's back doors open, gesturing at his...remodel like he was a magician proud of a truly horrific magic trick. Patrick slowly turned to stare at Brendon, who was just smirking back at him, completely and totally unrepentant. 

“This is a joke,” Patrick said. It wasn’t a question, because there was no question involved. There was _no way_ Brendon pulled this shit and was serious about it.

“I thought you would like it,” Brendon said, attempting a pout but failing when the smirk won out. “Are you not in love anymore?”

“Yeah, babe,” Pete said from behind Patrick, sliding his arms around his waist and planting a dramatic, over the top kiss to the top of Patrick’s head. “Don’t you love me anymore?”

“I love you,” Patrick said, resigned. “But not to the point of having patients see your half naked body all over the ambulance.”

“But Patrick,” Pete said, wounded. “I’m Mr. April. I thought you’d support my career aspirations.”

“Winning a place on the sexy firefighter calendar is _not_ career aspirations,” Patrick protested, fighting a grin as Pete kissed his cheek, then his neck. “And a sexy firefighter calendar doesn’t belong in the back of my ambulance.”

“Pretty sure the ambulance belongs to the city of San Francisco,” Joe said, hopping out of the cab. Patrick glared. 

“What is this, a spectator sport?” he asked, then pointed at Brendon. “Clean up the ambulance before we get any calls.”

“I am _wounded_ ,” Pete said, dropping his forehead to Patrick’s shoulder. “Shot right to the heart.”

“Oh my God,” Patrick said. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Brendon said loudly, stepping up onto the edge of the ambulance and raising his voice. Patrick wondered if he could possibly set someone on fire with the power of his eyes alone. “I would like to take this moment to thank my boss, Patrick, for being the most _ungrateful_ \--”

“Get your ass _down_ \--” Patrick began to hiss, but Pete took his hand and turned him around, kissing him before dropping down onto one knee, tightening his grip on Patrick’s hand before he could twist away, proving once again how well he knew Patrick. 

“ _Pete_ ,” Patrick said warningly. His heart didn’t know what it was doing, flip flopping everywhere in his chest. Pete’s eyes were locked on his and Patrick couldn’t look away, not even when Pete reached into the shirt pocket of his uniform and pulled out something that suspiciously looked like a ring but couldn’t possibly be a ring because that would mean Pete was _proposing_ and Pete couldn’t be _proposing to Patrick_ \--

“If I talk too long, you’re gonna lose your mind,” Pete said. “So here, in our brand new station, I’m asking you to be Mr. April with me. Marry me, Patrick?”

“Fuck you,” Patrick said around a lump in his throat and tears swimming in his eyes. Pete wanted to marry him? Patrick put Pete through _hell_ because of Bob and Pete still wanted to marry him?

“Is that a yes?” Pete asked, raising an eyebrow, and Patrick choked and nodded, kept nodding even when a suspicious amount of cheering met his answer, and when Pete put a goddamn engagement ring on his finger, and only stopped when Pete kissed him, right there on the floor.

For the first time in a long time, Patrick felt so light he felt like maybe he could fly.

Patrick and Pete broke apart with matching grins when the alarm went off, echoed by laughter and disappointed groans. The speaker called fire and medical to a three car accident on Nineteenth and Pete pressed another quick kiss to his lips before backing away with a grin, running to the truck because emergencies didn’t wait for first responders to have their moments.

And as Patrick took Brendon’s hand and let him haul him into the rig, sitting with him on the bench, grinning like an idiot, he figured he wouldn’t have it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DID I FAIL YOU? HUH? DID I? DID I?
> 
> littlesnowpea KEEPS HER DAMN PROMISES. 
> 
> i love you all.

**Author's Note:**

> smalltalktorture dot tumblr dot com.


End file.
